


In Search of Companionship

by kris799



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Child!Harry, Gen, Harry Cooks, John is out of the picture but not really, Magic, Mrs. Hudson is a gem, Parent!Sherlock, Set in Season 3, Sherlock has many thoughts, Slow Paced, and a mental!John to call him out on his crap, and is honestly how Baker Street keeps functioning, and shame on you if you're still not, and tries to take care of everyone, bored!Sherlock leads to bad [great] ideas, do we ever know how much he really knows??, he's not crazy, is there I promise, manipulative!Mycroft, perhaps glacial, potential spoiler alert if you're not caught up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kris799/pseuds/kris799
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the Sign of Three, Sherlock falls into a bout of melancholy; Mycroft, the consummate manipulator, suggests "filling the gap" and events largely get out of hand from there. A Sherlock adopts Harry!fic, set between Episodes Two and Three of Season Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laying Down the Breadcrumbs

 

 

“I warned you not to get involved, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, twirling his umbrella.

 

“Yes, well, it’s five bloody years too late for that now, isn’t it,” Sherlock replied snippily. He sank back into his leather chair and stared disinterestedly at the skull on the mantle, pointedly avoiding Mycroft’s scrutiny.

 

 _Here’s yet another sign,_ Mycroft noted, eyes passing over Sherlock’s face before flitting around the room, noting the absence of the rather tasteless red upholstered armchair John favored. _Only two years ago and Sherlock would be having this ‘conversation’ lying prostrate on the couch in nothing but his robe. Further indicators of maturity, though the pouting certainly hasn’t changed._

 

Mycroft fought the urge to sigh then, and rubbed his temples instead – only when dealing with his insufferable little brother did he feel inclined to something so plebian. “Come now, you haven’t left the flat in three days, your experiments haven’t been touched in longer, and judging from the rather relieved and pleading look Mrs. Hudson bore when showing me in,” here he pursed his lips distastefully as he eyed his brother, “you’ve not eaten in three – no, four – meals.”

 

“Most people would call that an invasion of privacy,” Sherlock sulked, repositioning in the chair, as if by edging away from his brother he could avoid this confrontation.

 

Mycroft did roll his eyes at that. It seemed this was to be yet another rendition of several conversations they’d had before. “We’ve established we aren’t most people, and you don’t believe in privacy any more now than you did as a child. Stop deflecting.”

 

Sherlock turned sharply in response to that accusation, gaze narrowing in on Mycroft’s face. “Very well. What’s my problem, then?” His muscles flexed as he tried to get back under control, tense against the soft fabric of his shirt. “ _Deduce_ it for me,” he enunciated with a tilt of his chin, annoyed.

 

 _Some fire at last,_ Mycroft relished. He shifted, standing up straighter and clasping his umbrella in front of him, prepared to make his case. “There’s an obvious void in your life, previously occupied by one John Watson–”

_“_ Yes, brother dear, I _had_ figured that out for myself, based rather largely on the vacant room upstairs,” Sherlock snarked back.

 

“ –hence the use of the word ‘ _obvious,_ ’” Mycroft sneered, little more than a slight upwards snarl of his mouth that managed to convey his rapidly lowering tolerance for Sherlock’s childish disseminations.

 

Sherlock threw his hands up at that, exasperated and motioning for Mycroft to _bloody well get on with it_.

 

Mycroft took a deep breath, drawing himself upwards before exhaling softly. “Voids are best fixed by filling them, you know.”

 

His younger brother tossed him a look that contained a small measure of hurt quickly eclipsed with a scoff, responding with, “You suggest finding a replacement John? What a ridiculous notion.” Sherlock glanced away with a sniff, “Besides, I already considered it. It would take entirely too long to find someone who hadn’t been tainted by the dull mediocrity of the world already. Even John had to be refurbished with my methods, and that took two years. Finding him was happenstance, a ‘diamond in the rough,’ if you will.”

 

 _And there’s the errant flair for dramatics._ Mycroft leaned his weight to the right, placing his hand in his left vest pocket as he adopted a musing look. “I suppose it would be rather irritating to undo a lifetime’s worth of vacuous impressions and tedious concerns…but perhaps, it could be _groomed_ into a proper candidate? Someone…not so set in their ways, so to speak?”

 

His younger brother’s eyes lost focus, minute twitches of his facial muscles the only evidence of the myriad of thoughts being considered and rejected in the same breath. Mycroft watched from the corner of his eye as he examined the tip of his umbrella; carefully uncaring was the best way to get through to Sherlock if Mycroft had had the luxury of preparation beforehand. Most days, however, Sherlock neglected to give him much warning prior to causing mayhem, and Mycroft ran close to losing that tenuous hold on his composure. He’d learned this lesson years ago, though – radio silence from Sherlock was not an indication that all was well; he’d allowed his little brother to slip from his attention for a matter of months and it had led to some rather…distasteful habits, not to mention Mummy’s tears.

 

_Focus, and lay the challenge…_

 

“ – but then again, I had years with you, and look how you turned out,” he drawled in a mild, mocking tone, “still just barely above a goldfish.”

  
Sherlock affected some semblance of a smile, “Teaching and patience have never been your strong suit, brother dear. Now get out, you’ve seen I’m not dead, and I’ve had quite enough of you. Don’t terrorize Mrs. Hudson on your way.”

 

The corner of his mouth lifted, and Mycroft nodded his head. “As you wish; I’ll see myself out, then,” Beginning to twirl the umbrella, he turned and sauntered down the stairs. _Not bad for an afternoon._

 

“Mrs. Hudson! Tea!” The bellow sailed down from behind him as he passed a blandly pleasant smile to the aforementioned beaming housekeeper, and rang to his ears like victory.

 

_That’s the seed planted, then. Let’s see what you make of it, brother dear._


	2. Taking Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we spend a lot of time in Sherlock's head.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it, and certainly not to his overbearing older brother, but something was different with Sherlock’s recent bout of melancholy. It wasn’t just boredom – he’d certainly encountered that often enough to know what it was – the few cases that had come through seemed just as unappealing as his experiments at the moment, and the siren call of his cigarettes was getting progressively harder to resist. Most telling, though, was the fact that he’d found himself turning more and more to the red armchair with some asinine thought on the tip of his tongue, only to find it empty.

 

That wasn’t all that different from their old routine; he had often had entire conversations with John only to discover later that the doctor had been absent for several hours. But now there was no promise that John would be home soon, that he’d just stepped out to pick up some milk or go to that silly job of his.

 

So there the armchair sat, day after day, looking rather stiff and worn without a body to welcome.

 

Of course Sherlock had contemplated texting John, but he usually talked himself out of it before bothering to track down his mobile. There was an element missing: _pure human companionship,_ John’s voice would call it, the one he heard in his head from time to time _. Sentiment,_ Mycroft’s would sneer.

 

He’d finally resorted to removing the chair, hoping that the lack of visual stimuli would reinforce to his subconscious that John no longer lived here, with no results; it was an ingrained habit by now, and the idea of actively training himself out of it seemed entirely too troublesome.

 

The thoughts he wanted to share weren’t even interesting ones deserving of vocalization, to be honest, just the usual musings he occupied his brain with when cases were few and far between: reworked theories of old unsolved murders, various derisions on the follies and foibles of humanity, corrections for whenever the telly got something so wrong he couldn’t stand it…nothing important, really, just things he didn’t want to keep to himself anymore.  

 

Though the two year separation inflicted by Moriarty’s mess was a much longer gap than the month or so since the wedding, it had been engaging, exciting, and, most importantly, driven by the ultimate purpose of keeping his important people safe. Lately, there had been nothing interesting to focus on beyond trying to pinpoint whoever was responsible for John’s near incineration on Guy Fawkes Night, but he had circled that endlessly in the first two weeks post-wedding, finally determining he could do no more until new details had come forth.

  
Sherlock was well and truly in a bit of a slump, which was the only reason that he was considering his brother’s latest challenge. The words of Mycroft’s little check-in had stuck in his mind, try as he might to engage it with something else. He certainly hadn’t missed the careful dance Mycroft had played with his words at the end, referencing their questionable childhood. _He’s so annoying when he’s trying to force me in some direction; won’t ever say what he wants because he knows I’d reject it on principle, but instead spends all this time mincing his words and “treading lightly” so he can give me a “puzzle to play with”…honestly, I’m not a child anymore._ Sherlock sneered at that, the absurdities his brother took were borderline outrageous sometimes.

 

Nevertheless, his thoughts turned over that conversation: _Not a new John then, but perhaps someone I could occupy myself with for a time…that might not be so awful_.

 

He rejected all of his current acquaintances on principle; he needed someone new to play with, untainted by past perceptions and preferable fairly malleable. _Someone amenable to observation training, and_ _an element of daredevilry, too, wouldn’t be remiss. Hmmm._

 

Shockingly Archie, the little boy from John and Mary’s wedding, leapt to mind first – he had been open and eager about gruesome crime scene photos, unimpressed with the silly rules of society that Sherlock himself struggled with so often, the ones other people clutched so dearly…in that same vein, children in general were much easier to influence, and they had a habit of paying attention to the details that years of dull routine and societal conventions had beaten into background noise for adults.

 

_Psychologically speaking, the ideal age range for learning new skill sets and languages generally falls between the ages of four and nine, and a great deal of childhood impressions lay the foundations for the concepts and norms adults depend on_ …

 

_Though_ _an adolescent would be more self-sufficient_ , he mused, _and more capable of the covert acts sometimes necessary in my line of work._ But teenagers were unruly and prone to random fits of surliness; they couldn’t be relied upon to any great degree, diminishing the inherent benefits of age and longer reach of arm.  

 

_And young children had far less hormones to deal with_ ; troublesome things, those – he’d trained himself to recognize whenever the chemicals were interfering with his thought processes at fourteen, but it’d been a fairly annoying year until he’d pinpointed exactly where all the aggression was coming from. Still, the experience had preoccupied him for a time with learning the ins and outs of biochemistry, a pursuit Mycroft had loudly approved of. _Up until I started slipping experimental drugs into his morning tea whenever he came home to visit,_ Sherlock snickered, vindictively pleased with himself.

 

_Not too young though,_ he thought, returning to his previous contemplations. He couldn’t be bothered to teach one how to speak or use the loo or any of that rubbish. _John had better not get ideas about needing a babysitter for his once it’s born_ , he reflected absently.

 

_Besides, people had a saying about that, didn’t they? Something to do with the ‘terrible twos?’ Well, that just cements it then, I’ll have to get one that’s gone through that already._

 

_Boy or girl?_ He speculated next; balance of probability said he was much more likely to have success with a boy than finding a younger Molly Hooper – _bugs versus barbies, after all, although I won’t rule out the possibility._  

 

The more he considered the idea, the more he’d grown to like it, although Archie had come attached with that considerably overbearing and unobservant mother of his: _frankly, it should have been obvious Archie wasn’t “in a shell,”_ Sherlock derided, _he was simply utilizing the silent treatment in protest to his forced wedding participation, rather ineffectively if she hadn’t even noticed the root of the problem…_ Regardless, had Sherlock actually tried to take Archie to any real crime scenes, the mother undoubtedly would have kicked up a fuss.

_So a four- to nine- year-old boy with potential, and preferably without parents. Right, let’s get cracking then._

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Upon reaching a decision, Sherlock had hit the streets with a bit of a disguise – wouldn’t do for him to be recognized, after all – in search of a child. At first he had thought a youth from his homeless network would be ideal, already trained in picking pockets and locks. But they were all too old, really, and didn't appear interested in leaving their little street gangs.

 

So he had moved on to scoping out different group homes about London. He’d come very close to finding a suitable one in a few of them, but in the end, something hadn’t quite seemed right. _John would accuse me of being picky,_ he reflected.

  
_He’d be right, you know_ , the part of his mind that had been most affected by John’s presence chimed in. _Then again, this is probably the sort of thing he’d disapprove of on principle._

_And therein lies a bit of the thrill,_ John’s voice whispered quietly in the back of his head.

 

_Not picky, just particular_ , Sherlock rationalized briskly, not wanting to follow that train of thought. _I want a good one, after all._

 

Though the disguises had initially been part of his plan to avoid a media circus, Sherlock had also begun using them as a method to weed out potential children quickly. He purposefully chose overly dramatic or out of place ensembles that could be seen through if anyone looked more carefully, _though I haven’t gotten anything more than cursory glances from the adults running these places; rather disturbing really, considering they’re supposed to be ‘in charge’ of Britain’s youth._

 

Nevertheless, such actions had led to his current situation, wearing an itchy faux moustache that was a few shades too dark to match the blond wig he’d absconded with – damn cheap theater costumes – and a tan trench coat three sizes too big that was proving quite necessary in the face of a cool summer day. He leant against the red brick wall of the St. James’ group home observing the residents, halfway between the double doors of the facility and the industrial-sized bins around the corner, where a few older children lurked with a pack of cards.

 

The playground was swarming, resembling an upturned anthill; _controlled chaos at its finest,_ he relished. Two monitors remained on the fringe of the mess, seated on a blue bench near the doors, absently chatting as they watched their charges. An expanse of pavement twelve or so meters in front of them provided a few hoops for shooting baskets, along with foursquare and tetherball courts. The playscape itself nestled in a sand pit beyond that, sharing space with the highly popular swing set. The entire area was surrounded by a chain-link fence, at the foot of which rested large, rectangular logs – _railroad ties, I believe_.  

 

Children crawled over the red iron play structure, several seated on top of the monkey bars themselves or pushing each other down one of the two slides, while smaller crews constructed sand castles at the base. A large group of boys played basketball with one half of the court, occasionally spilling into the foursquare area and sparking a bit of a conflict. Right on cue, one of the monitors stood up and stomped over, threatening the whole lot with a loss of privileges.   

 

Interspersed in the entire mess were six adults, two couples and two individuals, both women, _both married into the upper class, judging from their clothing and jewelry_. The two couples were more common, though on the higher end of the spectrum; _one husband’s a doctor, and the other wife looks like she works for the government._

_And all here doing the same thing I am,_ Sherlock thought, _picking out a child._

 

_42 children in all_ , he estimated. _No, wait, 43, one’s stashed himself against the fence there._ Sherlock’s eyes traced the form of thesmall boy perched rather stiffly on the edge of one of the logs outlining the playground area, a few feet from where sand met pavement.

 

He seemed to keep an eye on Sherlock at all times, though his head was constantly swiveling in motion. _Looking for a friend, perhaps?_ But the gaze wasn’t searching faces in the crowd, it was darting between very specific areas – the basketball-cum-tetherball courts, the monkey bars, and the corner with the bins that was partially out of sight of the monitor. _Keeping the bigger children in his sights,_ Sherlock realized.

 

_Bullying target?_ The consulting detective wondered next; _No, the boy’s not hiding, he’s been in plain sight since before I arrived, although he’s very good at avoiding drawing attention to himself – if he was a regular target, he would’ve been ambushed by now, or still cowering within the protection of the monitors. Just alert then,_ Sherlock decided, _an ingrained habit._

 

This was a point in the boy’s favor. The way he’d kept eyes trained on multiple targets at once, without an obvious reason, spoke of a history of bullying; potentially even abuse by adults if the way he was eyeing Sherlock and the other potential parents was any indication.

 

But he wasn’t scrutinizing the second, still-seated monitor with the same degree of intensity; _because she’s female? Or because he trusts her not to be a danger? Is that him trusting in the position she holds as a monitor responsible for keeping the children safe, or trusting her as an individual?_ The thoughts swirled rapidly around Sherlock’s brain, unable to be dismissed as possibilities without more information. 

 

Sherlock abruptly pushed off the brick wall and made his way to the fence, ambling slightly to match the mid-40s age of his current disguise. The boy’s head immediately snapped in his direction, gaze wary and assessing. Sherlock paused a few meters away, and considered the huddled figure more closely. The flyaway curls were a close match in color and texture to Sherlock’s own, though the boy didn’t have the tight corkscrews Sherlock had at that age (something he had eventually grown out of, thankfully). But where Sherlock’s eyes resembled grey morning mists on the Thames, this child had piercing chips of emerald. _Unusual color,_ Sherlock noted. _They could probably be darkened to a nondescript brown with the right contacts, though never a blue – the green is simply too vibrant for that._

“Mind if I join you?” Sherlock asked, careful to avoid invading the boy’s space without permission.

 

Guarded eyes studied him from small, pointed features, deliberating. The boy shrugged finally without removing his hands from where they were jammed in his pants’ pockets, a jerky motion of narrow shoulders. Sherlock sat with a moderate distance between them, hoping to convey his harmlessness, yet the boy remained tense, poised to stand quickly if necessary.  

 

They remained quiet for a few minutes, observing the antics of the children surrounding them. Still the boy’s head turned from one side of the playground to the other, occasionally peeking at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, until finally Sherlock cleared his throat and asked conversationally, “Don’t feel like playing today?”

 

“Not really, sir,” the boy replied, “I’m fine watching.”

 

“Do you watch things often, then?” Sherlock asked, leaning back against the fence. The chain-links groaned, bowing with the shape of his back.

 

He expected a silent nod, or maybe to be ignored entirely, but to his surprise the boy shrugged and responded with, “If you don’t watch, you get caught off guard. Better to know,” in a matter-of-fact tone.

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, “A wise philosophy. It’s rare to find that in someone so young.” He had originally estimated the boy to be around five or six from his small stature and initial manner, but now Sherlock revised that opinion. _Seven or eight?_

 

“S’pose,” the boy was speaking again, toeing the dirt in front of them. “It was important, that’s all.”

 

“And what can you tell me about me?” Sherlock asked, curious as to what his reply would be; the consulting detective doubted anything of substance, but it was a good chance to assess the child. He had to start somewhere, after all.

 

The boy half twisted to get a good look at him, brows furrowed together in a bit of a scowl as he considered the man. “You don’t…” he began, before pausing and donning a slightly perplexed expression, as if surprised he had spoken at all.

 

“Yes?” Sherlock prompted when it became clear he wouldn’t continue. Sherlock attempted to look encouraging and accepting as he spoke, but he wasn’t entirely certain he had succeeded when the boy remained silent for a few moments more. _I was hoping for a little more gumption_ , Sherlock thought, a bit disappointed.

 

“You don’t…match,” the boy admitted, finally.

 

“Match?” both of Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted at that. _Match what?_ he wondered, brain running off with possibilities, _society, the type of parental figures that usually visit the home, the businessman persona I’m trying to portray –_

 

“Something off about your moustache, sir,” the boy muttered, glancing away with a blush.

 

Sherlock’s thoughts halted. “You know, you’re quite right,” he conceded, pleased with this observation. “I don’t really approve of them, to be honest. They’re quite ridiculous.” And with that, he reached up and peeled the faux facial hair off of his upper lip, offering it to the boy to examine.

 

“Oh,” the boy said faintly, staring at the bit of hair in his hand, “my uncle’s didn’t do that, I don’t think.”

 

“Most don’t,” Sherlock confided. “This was a bit of a special case.”

 

The boy glanced back up at him, green eyes open as he waited for more explanation. The tension had dropped from his shoulders in the wake of his surprise at Sherlock’s revelation, attention focused wholly on the consulting detective.

 

A small part of Sherlock savored that attention; people rarely looked at him like that, eager for him to impart some sort of hither-to unexplained or mystifying bit of knowledge. He’d grown used to the fact that most people found him annoying at a young age, and frankly it didn’t bother him much, but he’d missed those looks of wonder. John occasionally stared at him that way, when he was in the mood to be amazed at Sherlock’s deductions; it was a tiny element of what made John so appealing as a friend.

 

_Perhaps…_ A plan formulated in his head then, and he waved his hands impatiently. “Never mind that,” Sherlock said, a small smile forming on his face. “How would you like to play a game?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own the fandoms. 
> 
> A side note on the timeline side of things: John and Mary's wedding was May 18th, Mycroft's visit a month later in June, and Sherlock started moving shortly thereafter. I'm not even going to try and mesh the years correctly between HP/Sherlock, so please assume we're somewhere in the realm of 2010 and leave it at that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. A Bargain is Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Harry play a game, Sherlock is sneaky, and Harry pays attention.

_Perhaps…A plan formulated in his head then, and he waved his hands impatiently. “Never mind that,” Sherlock said, a small smile forming on his face. “How would you like to play a game?”_

 

“A game?” The boy repeated, clearly confused at the non sequitur. Something shuttled quickly across his face before the look of dubious distrust pushed to the front again, and he leaned a little further away from Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

 

But Sherlock had a good feeling about this one, so rather than dropping the subject, he kept pushing (delicately). _Patience here, brother dear_ , Mycroft’s voice cautioned.

 

“Yes, a game. I like games, don’t you?” He asked brightly.

 

“I…I’ve not enjoyed most of the ones I’ve played,” the boy admitted slowly, uncertain how to navigate the subject change. _He’s rather like a feral dog you’ve fed once, wants to trust you, but he’s been struck so many times before the hesitance is ingrained by now,_ Sherlock thought.

 

_Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock, he could still say no,_ John warned.

 

“I promise you won’t have played this one before,” Sherlock said amiably. He softened then, taking pity on the bewildered boy. “You said you liked watching, right? Well, this is a game that's all about watching.”

 

“I-spy?” The boy suggested, face transparent as he scrambled to think. _We’ll have to work on that,_ Sherlock noted, _being exposed that way is a surefire way to get caught in a lie. Although it’s a good sign: the innocence wasn’t beaten out of him. Too hard too young, and he wouldn’t be of any use to me._

 

“Mmm I’m afraid not, though that, too, is an excellent observation game,” Sherlock agreed, although he much preferred the more elaborate version that he and Mycroft had developed when they were younger: “I deduce.” _Something to look forward to, perhaps._

Sherlock leaned a little closer to stare more clearly at the boy, considering. “You’ve probably played a lot of games by yourself, haven’t you? Invented new ones? Made up your own adventures?”

 

The boy peered guilelessly up at him from behind thick lenses, eyes scrunched up as he attempted to focus more clearly on Sherlock’s face; _funny how the eyes themselves stood out so much more at first than those glasses… they’re really quite horrible, and probably the wrong prescription, judging from how badly he’s squinting at me._

“How did you know, sir?” the child whispered, in a soft, longing tone.

 

_Your decision to sit silently by yourself in a playground full of your peers, without any toys to speak of. Your ability to remain in one place for longer than five minutes without seeking a new distraction. The yearning look I caught on your face when I asked you to play, just before it disappeared behind the disbelief that I could possibly be asking_ you _._

_  
_Any one of those answers would have done, and even have been truthful, for that matter, but Sherlock wasn’t concerned with showing off at the moment. He was trying to hook the child’s interest, and a bit of mystery always acted as a good lure. So instead all he offered was, “I played games all by myself, too; still do, in fact.

 

“But the ones I like best have always been against other people,” he continued. “A true challenge, new angles to consider, unpredictability…” his words trailed off as his thoughts turned briefly to Moriarty. _John would yell at me for saying so, but that was the finest game I’d played in a while. Engaging, elegant, and so deliciously_ not _boring._

 

The boy squirmed a bit, bringing Sherlock’s focus back to the present. 

“Suffice to say, it brings a new element to the table,” he finished. “So, how about it, will you play with me?” Sherlock asked a second time.

 

The boy ran a hand through his hair, flattening it across his forehead. “We’re not really supposed to play with strangers,” he temporized, “but Miss Jane says it’s okay to play with the adults in the home as long as they’re wearing the blue badge, since they might wanna adopt us,” he admitted, turning to look at Sherlock’s own dangling name tag for confirmation.

 

It bore a very nondescript “Mr. Brown,” the ink on the ‘n’ a bit smudged from being inserted into the plastic cardholder too quickly after printing. A brown bear sticker had been added by the woman at the front desk, “To help the children remember, dear,” a sentiment Sherlock could understand – visual cues were quite useful to stimulate memory, as he well knew – though he could have done without something quite so… cheery.

 

Sherlock remained silent and let the child rationalize, pleased to hear some semblance of logic being employed and rather certain of the outcome; _who could resist a mystery, after all?_

 

But then the boy’s mouth snapped shut as a new look dawned on his face; Sherlock could physically watch him withdraw: shoulders up, head pulled down, brows closed. The transparency was rather fascinating to the detective – people usually attempted (poorly, to his eyes) to hide their reactions better in social situations, but this was a pure response to a perceived threat.

 

So Sherlock wasn’t all that surprised when the next words were not an agreement, but an abrupt, “What are the rules of your game? I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to play after all.”   

 

_Smart, to hide behind the permission of an adult to potentially get out of something he doesn’t want to do. Leaves him open to say yes if the outcome is good, but he can run off to a monitor if he doesn’t like it. Though it’s_ slightly _more effective if he doesn’t give himself away beforehand._

Sherlock chose his words carefully. “Like I said, it’s all about observation; you noticed quickly that my moustache didn’t quite fit in with my hair and eyebrow color, yes?

 

“Er, well, I suppose?”

 

“Then I propose this: I’ll visit you each week dressed up as someone different for a month. If at the end of the month, you can tell me three true things about myself, I’ll give you a prize.” Sherlock explained patiently.

 

“But why? That sounds like an awful lot of work for you, sir,” the boy frowned, perplexed.

 

“I get bored easily,” Sherlock answered honestly. “Really, you’d be doing me a favor, playing with me. My brother doesn’t have the time for it anymore.” The consulting detective dangled a new tidbit in front of the boy, partially to see if he’d take the bait, but largely because the detective was close to exhausting his limited social skills.

 

Nevertheless the boy ignored the topic and instead seemed to be trying to work out Sherlock’s angle. _He’s somewhat dismissive because the entire thing appears far-fetched, but mostly it’s because he can’t imagine anyone wanting to spend that much time on him._  

 

“It’s quite a nice prize,” Sherlock offered enticingly, changing tactics.

 

The boy opened his mouth, paused, and then asked doubtfully, “I wouldn’t have to do anything else, just figure out three things about you?”

 

“Well, finding out who I am each day will take a bit of work, I imagine. I’ll not make it easy on you,” Sherlock warned with a wry smile.

 

_Third time’s the charm?_ John’s voice offered.

 

“I wouldn’t ask just anyone, you know,” he intoned, leaning closer. Confiding in people was supposed to be a good way to earn trust, right? “You’re the first one to notice anything odd about me, and I’ve been wandering around like this for _days.”_

The boy straightened a bit at that, a pleased look curving at the edge of his mouth.

_A hint of pride? I’ve got him now._

 

“Alright, let’s play.” The child agreed with a sharp nod of his head.

 

“Excellent. The game is afoot!” Sherlock concluded with his usual phrase, earning a funny look from the boy.

 

“For the moment, though, I’ll need that back,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the moustache still clutched in the boy’s hand. “People aren’t very observant often, but returning my nametag sans facial hair _might_ be pushing it.”

 

The boy laughed a little, brief confusion crossing his face at the word ‘sans,’ and returned the piece to the detective, watching fascinated as Sherlock began to reapply it with a bit of costume glue from his pocket. _Useful thing, trench coat pockets._

 

The detective climbed to his feet and gazed down at the boy with a brief nod, memorizing his facial features. “Until next time then.”

 

The boy gave him a serious nod in return, and watched as Sherlock strode off in the direction of the building.

 

_That went quite well, I think._

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock made his way back to the double doors at a pace slower than his usual stride, mind spinning with plans for their next meeting. He was just about to pass the benches when he was hailed unexpectedly.

 

“You got him to talk to you, then?” the still-seated monitor called out to him, surprised. He glanced about the playground, noticing her partner had resolved the squabble on the court and moved over to the swing sets, pushing some of the younger children.

 

Sherlock turned back to the woman in front of him; he’d noted her eyes on their spot of the fence periodically during the fifteen or so minutes they had been chatting and dismissed it accordingly as part of her duties, but this sudden interest led the detective to do a quick assessment: _Miss ‘Rachel’, according to her name tag, late 20s, recently married, some sort of teacher judging from her bag,_ he thought, noticing the lettering for a local private school on the side _; probably for small children, given her volunteer choice. She wants kids, the husband’s resisting._ It was all there, in the wistful arch of her eyebrows, the grasping hand splayed on her stomach, and the way she was absently spinning her marriage ring.  

 

“I’m glad,” she continued with a somewhat warm, sanctimonious smile. “Harry’s had a rough go of it; he’s barely spoken since he was brought here,”

 

_Add overly emotionally invested with her charges, and a gossipmonger, to boot._ _And ‘Harry?’_

He mentally reviewed their conversation, realizing neither party had offered a name at any point. _Mine was easily explainable, I had the nametag and adult status; on some level it makes sense for him to ignore it, out of respect or what have you…but for him to not mention his name at all suggests he’s either used to everyone knowing it, or, more likely, he’s used to people not wanting it…_

 

The woman looked ready to launch in to some juicy, tragic backstory, no doubt fraught with embellishments, so Sherlock quickly affected an absent, uncaring expression. When he was time pressured on a case, it could be useful to hear the opinions of bystanders on his client or victim, but he could afford to take his time here. He much preferred to deduce information firsthand from the subject themselves; people lied, after all, but their appearance and actions were usually more reliable. It was one of the reasons he’d been so annoyed with Mycroft during the case with The Woman – no face-to-face meeting with his client meant he was only getting part of the picture.

 

Sherlock briefly debated bringing up the topic of the monitor’s shaky marriage as a cheap distraction, but no, _Not good_ , came the voice inside his head. “We had quite a pleasant conversation,” was all he shared, instead. John _had_ taught him to rein it in a bit better.

 

He followed quickly with a curt, “Sorry, buzzing,” gesturing to his pocket and effectively cutting her off before she could really start digging. He pulled out his mobile and sauntered up the walkway to the building entrance.

 

“Oh hello! I’m fine, how are you-“ was all that escaped before he was safely ensconced behind the double doors, quickly relaxing into his more neutral expression.

 

Two hallways stood before him, decorated with childish drawings and various summer-themed stencils. A bulletin board to the left proudly declared the rules of the playground in big block lettering _,_ easily visible from a child’s height. He’d been shown on a brief tour of the first floor before being turned outside when he first arrived, so he knew that down the left hallway were a few assorted classrooms, bathrooms and eventually, round the corner, the auditorium that doubled as a cafeteria. The right hallway led to the staff room, the art room, the back entrance to the stage of the auditorium, and the door he was heading for: the lobby.

 

The whole building was one giant square, really, so he could’ve gone in either direction, but he wanted to snag another glimpse into the staff room on his way.

 

A few quick strides had him in front of the staff door; it was more plainly decorated than the other entryways he’d passed. _Probably to discourage aimless visits from the students,_ he reasoned.

 

_Damn, locked._ He briefly debated picking it, but weighed the likelihood of getting caught against the necessity of entry _right now_ and decided to leave it; he would have other opportunities in the near future, and would most likely be better acquainted with what sort of information he should be looking for. _This isn’t a case, you have the time to take it slow,_ he reminded himself. That left only one more item on his agenda for the day.

 

So Sherlock continued down the hallway, towards the front of the building. He paused just before pushing through the door that would return him to the lobby, glancing through the thin pane of glass to confirm that the receptionist was still at her desk. He backed off a few steps to the side of the hallway and pulled out his mobile again to dial a number:

 

“Hello, this is Sarah at the St. James’ Group Home, how may I help you?” came an older voice on the other end of the line.

 

“Yes, hi, I’m looking for Rachel. I have an important message for her and can’t reach her on her mobile. Could you go get her for me? It’s quite urgent.” He said, pitching his own voice higher by a few octaves.

 

“Certainly, sir. One moment please.”

 

He heard her pushing a few buttons on her end before cheerful music began spilling through the line. The detective quickly pushed the mute button and turned his face further into the wall. He brought the phone back to his ear, prominently displayed, and began speaking again.

 

“-oh yes, that would be lovely…” he affirmed deeply, just before the lobby door swung open. He pointed to his mobile with his other hand, mouthing, “My secretary.”

 

The slightly stooped figure of the elderly front receptionist stared at him in surprise for a moment, clearly not expecting anyone to be on the other side; once she grasped he was in the middle of a conversation, she nodded to him silently and continued on down the hallway.

 

“-excellent, really…” Sherlock continued, twisting to ensure Sarah had gotten far enough away she couldn’t overhear him anymore.

 

He shoved the still muted phone back into his pocket, figuring he had approximately two minutes for Sarah to find Rachel and bring her back to the front desk to take her call. He slipped through the lobby door and made for the computer – _still unlocked, no password protection,_ really _–_ in search of the upcoming events schedule.

 

Sherlock clicked through a few applications before finding a copy: _quite full too, my luck it’s the holidays, plenty going on to keep the children entertained._ He quickly emailed it to himself, deleted the email, and slid off the office chair.

 

As he was removing his nametag, he spied a half open drawer filled with the materials necessary to make new badges; _might as well grab a few of those while I’m here, could prove useful._

 

The detective had just swung around to the proper side of the desk, contraband shoved into the deep trench coat pockets and “Mr. Brown” nametag in hand, when he heard the click of two pairs of heels signaling the return of the receptionist with the monitor from earlier.

 

“Oh! Ready to check out then, dear?” The elder receptionist asked, scuttling over to seat herself in the recently vacated chair. “I’ll just take that badge, and if you could sign out on this sheet, you’re all set,” she said to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the linked network operating between the various group homes: once one fake background made it through the bureaucracy, security was reduced to a simple paper sign in sheet. _Not quite technologically integrated yet, are we? Safe bet that the files on the children_ are _still paper copies in the staff room then,_ he thought to himself. _I really will have to have a look in there at some point._  

 

To the woman beside her, the receptionist turned and said, “Line two for you, dearie. Push the third button over to stop the phone music.”

 

Sherlock caught the receptionist’s eye and said, “I’ll just be off then. Take care,” with a sunny smile that felt rather out of place on his face, but seemed to past muster, because Sarah just smiled and hummed back at him.

 

He was just turning to leave, thumb on the ‘call end’ button of the phone in his pocket, when he heard the younger woman say, puzzled, “The line just went dead.”

 

“Really? Must’ve got tired of waiting, then. People are so impatient these days!” Sarah exclaimed with a grumble. “Let me try and get the number off of the caller ID and you can ring back.”

 

He was a step through the exit, listening to the fading voices behind him with a small smirk on his face. “Oh my, the call was on private; well, it couldn’t have been that important if he didn’t bother to leave a message…”

 

* * *

 

For the first encounter of their game, Sherlock decided to take it somewhat easy on the boy and waited exactly a week. _Plenty of time to teach the boy about unpredictability in later sessions,_ he thought. That this conveniently allowed the detective to sneak in to view the exclusive concert put on by one of the home’s benefactors was only an added benefit, of course.

 

The only other option for this week had been an “Arts and Crafts Day” with the children, which Sherlock blatantly refused to subject himself to. Small, hyperactive imps racing around with _glitter_ and _glue?_ Absolutely not. The one he picked out might not be so inclined ( _of course he’s not, that’s why I picked him)_ , but he would have to interact with the rest of them first or be spotted immediately. _And that wouldn't be a challenge for the boy at all._

No, a concert was perfect in his mind: small amounts of talking required beyond the usual pleasantries, and if this turned out to be a colossally bad idea, there would be plenty of rich people around to distract himself with; he could sit in a corner and play ‘spot-the-scandal’ if the boy was slow to find him.

 

So when Friday afternoon rolled around again, Sherlock donned a tuxedo and a pair of false spectacles, using some gel to slick his hair back. It was rather minimalist as far as disguises went, but it would prove a sharp contrast to the blond figure from last week. It was still cool in the evenings, so he nabbed one of his less distinctive coats on his way out the door. A pocket watch tucked into his front pocket added a dash of elegance; all in all he thought he’d pulled off the debonair look quite well.

 

Just before stepping out of the cab, he added the final touch – a self-printed badge from the stash he’d swiped last week, declaring his name for the evening: “Mr. Smyth.”

 

Sherlock had had the cabbie stop a block away from the home to give himself time to consider his approach: as he had hoped, a man was taking tickets at the door from the various patrons lined up on the steps outside. While the events schedule he’d emailed himself last week was proving quite useful, it unfortunately lacked copies of the tickets necessary to actually attend the events; Sherlock would have to improvise his way in.

 

_All part of the fun, really._

 

Though the entrance to the home was a double door set up, the man taking tickets had kept one shut ( _and most likely locked)_ to better control the crowd. _Best bet in is through another entrance then._

 

Sherlock casually slipped down the alleyway that would lead to the back of the home and the fenced off play area. The side street was remote enough at this hour that he was unlikely to be seen if he was careful enough. After a quick look in either direction, Sherlock placed his coat atop the fence to keep from snagging his tuxedo, wedged a foot in one of the holes and levered himself over the top. It was a neat maneuver, and he easily landed on his feet at the bottom.

 

“Right then,” he said, collecting his coat. He slipped a hand inside the inner pocket to extract his lock picking kit and went to work on the back doors leading into the building.

 

It was a matter of minutes before he heard the quiet snick of the lock giving, and he paused for a moment to collect himself before continuing inside. The detective took the left hallway this time, stepping into the bathrooms to wet his hands and provide a cover story if anyone thought to ask where he’d been, _though I doubt anyone will bother._  

 

And just like that, smooth as butter, Sherlock made his way into the lobby where the other guests were congregating. Here and there a child darted through, but the detective saw no sign of his just yet. He caught the tail end of various conversations as he lingered by the refreshments table for a while. _Stock markets this, Parliament that,_ he thought, disgusted. _How dull._ He left the cup of water he’d picked up on the edge near the cheese tray and wandered about the room, ostensibly in search of a program.

 

Sherlock drew nearer to the tablecloth-covered table set up by the entryway, burdened with several stacks of programs and a donations box on the corner. The monitor from the other day – _Rachel,_ John’s voice provided – was seated behind it, trying to coax funding out of an older couple as she regaled them with tales of Wednesday’s Art Day. Several of the children’s drawings were displayed on the walls, complete with a sloppy signature each; a sign nearby declared them for sale for a pound.

 

Sherlock slipped in behind a rather loud foursome loitering just to the side of the couple to grab a program off the corner. _Strike that, just the one is noisy_ , he thought, observing the rather portly man addressing what looked to be his boss and the boss’s wife. The portly man’s own wife seemed used to his deafening tones and absurd chortling, for she stood placidly by with a pleasantly interested look plastered on her face, mind clearly elsewhere in the face of a story she’d probably heard numerous times already. The boss and his wife did not appear so desensitized to the verbal onslaught: the woman was subtly trying to back away, and looked quite willing to sacrifice her husband to do so. In fact –

 

“I’ll just go get us some drinks then, shall I dear?” She murmured quietly, but insistently to her husband, before hastening off to the refreshment table nestled under the stairs, clear across the room. _They won’t be seeing her for a while,_ Sherlock smirked.

 

If anything, the wife’s rapid departure seemed only to encourage the employee, as for all intents and purposes he now held his boss’s entire attention. The boss had a rather pained look on his face at this renewed enthusiasm, and tried to interrupt with, “Ah yes, that’s all well and good George, but what about this program tonight, eh? Should be a fine evening! We ought to get to our seats, yeah? I think it’s starting soon!”

 

“Oh no sir, we still have a good twenty minutes!” George replied earnestly. “I always love a good night of music; used to play the violin when I was a boy myself! Still do when I have the time, isn’t that right, Marcia?” he nudged his wife with an elbow, prompting her to bob her head in agreement. He immediately demonstrated, bringing his hands up in a mockery of the way one might hold a violin and elaborately waving his right arm over his left, swaying back and forth in the motion.

 

“Moron,” Sherlock couldn’t help but utter, eyebrow twitching. _His bowing is all over the place, his hands are spaced entirely too far apart for a violin; even with a large-sized viola he would be hard-pressed to draw anything called music out of the instrument. If this man ever took real lessons, which I_ highly _doubt_ , _they were so long ago he’s lost what little he might’ve learned. He’s certainly not touched one recently – he doesn't even have the calluses to back up his claims!_

 

Fortunately, the man appeared so “in tune” with his music and swaying that he failed to hear Sherlock. The detective spun on his heel, eyes closed in disgust. _Time to find a new conversation to dissect; the boss is going to make his escape soon under the pretense of finding his wife and I’m not interested in hearing George crow to his about what a good impression he’s made._ Sherlock took a step forward, back towards the throng -

 

\- only to see the boy standing right in front of him, leaning in to stare up at Sherlock’s eyes keenly.

  
“It _is_ you!” the child exclaimed happily, rocking back on his heels with a pleased smile on his face.

 

Sherlock reeled in surprise for a moment, trying to switch gears. He was honestly surprised the boy had found him this quickly; it had been what, ten, twelve minutes? “What gave me away?” he asked, finally.

 

“We were waiting upstairs,” the boy said, pointing to the staircase on the left side of the lobby, the one that led to the residential area of the home. Sherlock could see several little heads poking through the railing on the upper floor, curiously watching the milling crowd below. “That’s where I caught sight of you; it took me a while. You didn’t come through the front door, did you?” the boy said suspiciously.

 

“No,” Sherlock let a small smile sweep onto his face at the reminder of the boy’s observant nature. It had been easy, in the week since his first visit, to write off the entire encounter as some overly optimistic fantasy of his, where he’d given the child more credit than he was due in the hopes that _finally_ Sherlock had found one that might work. He was pleased at the proof that _this_ boy was worth investing some time in. 

 

“Once I saw you walk though, I guessed it was you - you don’t really walk like anyone else here,” the boy admitted, scrunching up his nose. John had commented on the same thing once upon a time, telling Sherlock he tended to “glide, or maybe stride with a purpose. Whatever you do, Sherlock, it’s distinctive.”

 

“Besides, Mr. Smyth, you’re wearing the wrong nametag!” the child said brightly, clearly caught up in the excitement of the night.

 

Sherlock blinked; _surely he doesn’t think my name is actually Mr. Brown from last time?_ But no, the slight mischievous smile on the boy’s face indicated it was more than that; the detective glanced down at his badge but saw nothing different about his than any of the other patrons present; _same font, same plastic card holder, same lanyard_ – _oh,_ _damn_ , he thought. Everything was identical, but the one defining characteristic lacking was –

 

“Miss Sarah at the front desk _always_ gives everyone a special sticker for their name,” the boy giggled, automatically bringing up a hand to hide his laughter, “I’ve never seen one without it.”

 

“I’ll have to fix that next time,” Sherlock said faintly, internalizing his annoyance at missing this one small detail. _It’s always something,_ John laughed.   


The boy nodded in agreement, and blurted, “We’re to take people to their seats now, if you’re ready.”

 

Sherlock noted he seemed somewhat embarrassed at his outburst earlier, so Sherlock only replied with, “That would be acceptable.”

 

“Come on,” the boy said, though Sherlock was cognizant of the fact that he didn’t take the detective’s hand to lead him down the hall as some of the other children did, “the adults are supposed to sit back here,” he continued, directing Sherlock towards the rows of foldable seats at the back of the auditorium. “We’re on the floor up front,” he added, pointing to where some of the children were rolling around.

 

He paused then, toeing the floor shyly, before asking, “Will I see you afterward?”

 

_Shy, but a bit excited too._ “I think I can spare a few minutes before I need to make my escape,” Sherlock offered, suddenly a bit timid himself.

 

The boy gave a sharp nod and a soft, “Okay then,” before shuffling off in the direction of the floor up front. Sherlock watched him take a seat a few feet away from a trio of boys, before being quickly eclipsed by other children as they settled in behind him.

 

The string quartet was already seated, members most likely having tuned their instruments in the half hour or so before the show. Sherlock noted the cellist was having an especially difficult time keeping a straight face in response to the antics of the children in front of him. An easy smile graced the faces of the two violinists, although their eyes were carefully flitting about the room, while the viola player held her own composure by focusing intently on her music sheets.

 

The adults had been steadily streaming in while he was occupied with the boy and surveying the quartet; Sherlock hung back for a few more minutes to ensure he could secure a seat on the end of one of the rows and not have to fuss with a bunch of people climbing over him. The buzz of chatter droned in throughout the auditorium, and it took quite a few tries before the emcee for the evening could gather everyone’s attention to start the program. Finally the lights dimmed, instruments raised, and Sherlock settled in to enjoy the performance.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, the emcee began to draw the evening to a close, thanking everyone for attending. Sherlock tuned out his speech: _blah blah thanks, blah please donate, blah every pound helps; as if everyone here hasn’t heard some variation of that before._

 

He rose as soon as he saw signs of others doing the same, filing out into the hallway to wait for the boy back in the lobby. He chose a perch near the counter of the front desk to lean against: it gave him a good view of the hall but was far enough from the renewed refreshments table that everyone would predictably beeline for that he wouldn’t get caught up in the crush.

 

Interspersed in the crowd were various yawning children, sleepily pawing at their eyes. A few of the smallest had clearly lost the battle already and were being carried up the stairs by the monitors on staff for the evening. Sherlock picked out the boy helping lead a girl a few years younger than him. _He’s attentive, nurturing,_ the detective noted, comparing him to the gaggle of boys recklessly tramping through their peers in search of one last bit of excitement before the staff could corral them upstairs.

 

The boy caught sight of Sherlock after gently passing his charge off to another monitor, eluding the arm that tried to snatch him up as well. Sherlock watched as he exchanged a few words with her for a moment, before she gave a nod of permission, turning towards the stairs.

 

The boy scampered in the detective’s direction, pausing in front of him with a tired, “Hi.” He scrubbed at his face with one hand, trying to appear more awake than he actually felt. The detective caught sight of a small mark briefly, before it was quickly covered up by the dark mop of hair again. _Birthmark, perhaps?_

 

Sherlock dismissed the thought and greeted him in turn, eyes noting the drooping lids and slightly listing posture. _He’s dead on his feet,_ Sherlock thought, absurdly pleased the boy had taken the time to say goodnight before finding his bed. _Won’t be much for night cases yet,_ the more practical side of him mentioned.

 

“What did you think of the performance?” Sherlock asked a bit awkwardly, after a moment or two of silence.

 

A look of wonder came onto the boy’s face then. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard,” he said reverently. Sherlock was a bit surprised at that – most children cared little for classical music, although he supposed the boy could be referring to the more modern pieces slipped in between Beethoven and Bach. But the admiration in the boy’s manner was clear as day. _Not had much exposure to music like this then,_ he concluded.

 

“I’m glad,” Sherlock murmured.

 

The detective truthfully hadn’t known what to expect from the post-concert interaction with the boy: _questions, trying to figure out something for the game? Calling the whole thing off, maybe?_ Part of him whispered, apprehensive despite himself.

Whatever he had been expecting, it was clear from the yawning face in front of him that nothing of the sort was on the table. Sherlock wasn’t sure if the boy had gleaned anything useful from tonight or not, but either way, their evening was shortly drawing to a close.

 

“Until next time then, sir?” the boy asked hopefully. Sherlock liked to think that hope was for their next encounter rather than at the prospect going to sleep soon, but what did he know?

 

“Until next time,” Sherlock acquiesced.


	4. The Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they take a trip to the zoo, Sherlock is less sneaky than he thinks, and he has some fun with monkeys.

Sherlock swept out onto Baker Street on Tuesday morning with a vibrancy that had been absent since his last good murder, a great many months ago. He paused to get a whiff of the morning London air, absently cataloguing the familiar scents as he peered up and down the street. _Motor oil, the ink of newsprint from the morning paper delivery, various baked goods from Speedy’s café – smells as if the special today is a cheese tart of some kind. John will be disappointed, those are his favorite._  


However it was not the smells that were of interest this morning, but the view; mid-morning on a Tuesday was certainly not the peak hour of traffic for Baker Street, so the detective’s perfunctory glance around was actually quite informative.

 

His eyes slid over the apartment blocks across the way, noting signs of damage and strain on the doorframe. _Looks like someone’s had a domestic again and tried to take it out on the door._ The blue car idling in front of the flat a few blocks down – _must be going on holiday to the country, with all of that equipment on the luggage rack –_ drew the attention of the entire street when the man behind the wheel started laying on the horn. Sherlock continued to observe as the family in question noisily streamed out of the flat, piling into the car with last minute items in hand, and drove off. 

 

_But most of interest…_

 

_There_ , he thought, pinpointing one of Mycroft’s ‘nondescript’ black cars parked just behind the space the family had occupied. _They’re only nondescript when noticing them doesn’t automatically indicate you’ve got a watcher,_ Sherlock snorted.

 

_Nothing for it then, the tube will have to do,_ he decided, hitching his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder and abruptly striding off towards the nearest station.

 

It was barely audible, but Sherlock had his ears trained, waiting for the soft slam of a car door indicating the man had decided to follow afoot. _At least this one’s got some brains,_ he thought. The last one had been determined to stay in his car the whole time, _really tripped up when I made for the tube_ , he smirked, pleased.

 

Upon descending into the depths of the tube station, he made for the most rapidly moving lane – _lane one hasn’t even got his card out yet, two’s weighed down with several large bags, three’s out of order, ahhh the businessman in lane four; late for work this morning? Perfect_. He swiped his oyster card just after the man in question and found himself a bit of wall to lean against while waiting for the train.

 

The vantage point gave him a clear view from his peripherals of the man following him: dark hair and eyes, moderately priced suit, _though not as high end as the ones Mycroft usually employs._ He was wearing an earpiece, into which he was now frantically muttering. _Bit nervous, this one. Thirty seconds without a visual and he’s already panicking to his superiors._

When the motion out of the corner of his eye diminished into the mundane task of pulling out a paper to read, Sherlock figured the man had caught sight of him again. _Play along till the train arrives?_ John suggested, with an air of exasperation.

 

Sherlock nodded decisively, and occupied himself with counting the various ways this tube station had broken the health inspector’s code. It wasn’t exactly a fun game, since he was in and out of this particular station fairly regularly and had a passing knowledge of it all already, but it engaged the five minutes necessary without giving the man much to report back.

 

When the train arrived, Sherlock made immediately for the door to the carriage in the direction furthest from the stalker, towards the front area. The man following him slipped into the carriage just behind his in an effort to remain unnoticed; _fool move_ , Sherlock thought, because it gave him plenty of time to swap clothing. He ducked behind a rather large man – _must be over two meters at least –_ who had been forced by the sudden influx of people to lunge for the support pole to avoid falling into the middle-aged woman seated in front of him. Sherlock started peeling off his outer coat as soon as the doors shut, while the man was distracted apologizing to the woman. His fingers quickly ran down the buttons of his shirt in a practiced motion, a vague frown on his face as he tried to plan his next move.

 

As he was untucking his shirt, he belatedly realized the murmuring wasn’t the usual purposeless chatter of a crowd waiting for their stop; rather he happened to be the focus of it and what looked to be several gawping looks, _most likely for undressing on the tube,_ John commented in a blasé manner.

 

The detective scoffed at one blatant offender, “Oh relax, would you? I’ve just got a stain on my shirt and need to swap it before work.”

 

His words appeased most of his audience, so he quickly stripped the shirt off to reveal his undershirt –

 

“That’s no’ coming off too, is it?” Asked one older man still giving him the stink eye.

 

_And that’s why taking a cab would have been better – the smarter ones don’t ask questions. Damn Mycroft._

 

Sherlock just sneered at the man and reached into the duffel at his feet for a British-flag patterned t-shirt, one he’d picked up off a street vendor for eight quid a few days ago. He drew it out with a flourish in the man’s direction for good measure, before pulling it over his head. A hasty glance behind him showed he was still safely ensconced behind the large pole-clinger, so he extracted the matching baseball cap and donned it quickly.

 

“Your boss ought to fire you for coming in in that,” the old man grumbled, still peeved.

 

Sherlock ignored him and stuffed his previous garb into the bag, counting down the stops until he could get off. As luck would have it, the large man hopped off a few stops early; Sherlock spied from under the brim of his cap as the stalker belatedly realized that the object obstructing his view of his target through the compartment windows was gone, and yet he still could not see Sherlock’s coat. The panicked glance out the closing doors, the frantic lunge past the crowd, and the way he broke into a run after emerging from his carriage all told Sherlock that he’d succeeded in losing his tail.

 

_Excellent,_ he smirked. _You’re a bad man,_ John laughed. _Mycroft will have a fit._

 

* * *

 

_I_ do _look ridiculous_ , _the old man was right,_ he thought after catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a shop window.

 

_Because the deerstalker is so much better?_ John asked sarcastically. _And there’re photographs of that one. Enjoy your anonymity._

 

After ditching his tail, Sherlock only had to wait a few stops before arriving at his destination. A leisurely stroll out of the tube for a few blocks led him here, where brightly colored posters decorated the massive gates in front of him, all loudly proclaiming, “Welcome to the London Zoo!”

 

The detective breezed through the ticket counter and bag check with the masses, giving the map in his hand a cursory glance. The home was schedule to have dropped off their children at 9:45, just before the zoo opened; it was half-ten now, so Sherlock would have to do a bit of searching to find the boy in the crowd.

 

_Or let him come to me…_

There were several picnic areas sprinkled throughout the park according to the map, some isolated near particularly interesting exhibits, but the majority clustered around the Terrace Restaurant; _Lunch was ‘included’ on the event schedule, so best bet is that restaurant – the other places are kiosks at best as stated by the website. They’ve got small children with them who get hungry quickly, and will want to avoid most of the crush to keep from losing anyone – so probably a table or two reserved for an early lunch on the outskirts? That gives me about half an hour to get in place,_ he estimated roughly.

 

Sherlock began walking down the most direct path towards the canteen, made easier by the lively animal-themed signs helpfully providing directions at every possible intersection.

 

He soon came out to a large, open patio, covered in wrought iron chairs and tables laden with the stains of an outdoor life – there were signs they had been spottily scrubbed recently, but Sherlock noticed people leaning around the larger dabs of pigeon excrement. The crowd was paltry at the moment, a few families having a late morning tea before beginning the excitement. The smells of cooking from the kitchen indicated the restaurant expected business would soon pick up though; Sherlock began perusing the outskirts, looking for any kind of reservation sign on the larger tables.

 

_Nothing in place yet, and twenty minutes left. Perhaps the staff just hasn't laid them out yet? No, they’d risk the tables filling up; wouldn't want to do that to such a large group of prospective clients._

_Check upstairs?_ John proposed, drawing Sherlock’s attention to the glass-lined terrace a floor up. _Of course, the “Terrace Restaurant?” Stupid, Sherlock, they’d want the best view,_ he chided himself.

 

A set of outdoor stairs to the right quickly brought him to the second level; a sweeping glance revealed roughly the same number of occupants as below, _though there are two longer tables over at the edge there, and a woman who looks as if she’s waiting – book in front of her, but she keeps glancing around, searching for her party. Maybe they’re inside getting food?_

 

It was an educated deduction, but the only way to be sure was to slip inside and confirm for himself.

 

The interior was similar to a higher-end restaurant, clearly refurbished more recently than the outdoor furniture. A glass paneled expanse to the right provided more space for eating. To the left was a darker hallway that presumably led to the other set of stairs. Sherlock passed both the female and male loos before coming to the mouth of the steps, but the hallway extended a bit beyond that.

 

_Second set of kitchens?_ John guessed.

 

_No, I don’t think so,_ Sherlock responded as he took a step down the hallway. A sign on the first door declared it the “Elephant room.”

 

_Of course! Party rooms – what better way to keep the children corralled than to lock them all in a room for lunch? If not the elephant room, then the next one down –_

The orange placard on the second door enthusiastically proclaimed itself the “Tiger room;” just below was a white piece of paper with the typed notification that the room was reserved for the “St. James’ party.”

 

_Bingo._

 

_Slight hang up though, Sherlock – you can’t exactly lie in wait in the room._ Sherlock waved his hands in a dismissive manner at John’s voice of practicality. It was no bother that he couldn’t begin his observation at lunch, he’d just needed confirmation of the boy’s whereabouts without having to traipse across the entire park to find him. With that issue settled, Sherlock headed back outside to a small table pressed up against the glass railing of the second level eating area, prepared to hold vigil until the boy arrived.

 

A server came by shortly to inquire as to what he needed; Sherlock requested tea and the morning paper. He didn’t have a book to occupy himself like the other woman waiting, so he took a page from his morning stalker and gave himself something commonplace to do.    

 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock spied a group of around forty children trooping up to the restaurant, herded by eight volunteers. Closer inspection showed that everyone had some sort of a nametag, this time in the shape of different animals and colors. _No, only eight different animals, and each animal has its own colors – a grouping system, then, to tie some of the children with the adults._

 

His eyes caught sight of the boy, somewhere in the back of the herd. A green turtle marked his chest, which Sherlock matched to a middle-aged woman in a sundress near the front of the pack. _That’s who I’ll need to be keeping a look out for._

 

The boy appeared happy, a light on his face that had certainly been absent the first day they met at the playground. The look of wonder from the concert was back, eyes big as he tried to intake everything about his surroundings. Sherlock observed from above until the boy disappeared into the restaurant below him, and settled in to wait once more.

 

When he had seen the trip to the zoo listed as an activity, the detective had known this would be a much different encounter from the concert: the zoo was an enormous, open area with a constant flux of visitors in and out. At the home, the boy had had the advantage of a closed environment, controlled entry, and familiarity with around fifty percent of the people present, _not to mention that those fifty percent were easily identifiable due to the height differences between them and the ones he was unfamiliar with._

 

It would be a waste of time to situate himself somewhere in the zoo and wait for the boy to notice him. Considering the boy’s likely elevated excitement level, the difficulty of searching through such a large crowd, and the fact that he might not be expecting Sherlock (it had been not even four days from the concert, and the only data the boy had to extract from had been the week he’d waited previously), the likelihood of finding a passive Sherlock was next to none.

 

So Sherlock decided to approach this meeting completely differently and go on the offensive a bit. His ensemble would help with blending into the background: he’d specifically chosen nondescript tourist clothing that would camouflage key identifying features, such as his hair, and a camera lens from the duffel would do much to hide his face – _As my wedding proved,_ John sighed, put out – although the model chosen was notable for its rather loud shutter noise.

 

All of this boiled down to one fact: Sherlock wasn’t playing fair this time.

 

_Let’s see how he does with a follower._

_  
_

* * *

   


Roughly an hour after the children had trooped in, they stampeded out of the restaurant with barely contained excitement. Sherlock had maintained his post at the railing, watching as the park filled up, tea stone cold and untouched beside him.

 

_Time to begin._

 

He reached into the duffel resting by his chair and drew out his camera, starting to take photos of the area around him. And if the boy and his turtle group featured heavily in some of the latter shots, no one was around to call him out for it.

 

There they were, separated into eight single file lines, each with an adult at the head.

  

A zoomed in shot displayed the practically vibrating children calling out where they wanted to go first.

  

The woman with the orange mouse, calmly holding counsel with the other adults, _most likely about when and where to meet up_.

 

Finally, the boy, equally excited but mouth shut, merely shifting side to side repeatedly.

  

And with that, they were off, splitting into groups on the three paths that led back to the zoo proper. Bill settled some time ago, Sherlock quickly grabbed his bag and hopped down the outside stairs onto the leftmost path, the one the turtles and purple cats had taken. A sign declared it the way to the penguins, parrots, and the “Butterfly Paradise,” much to the elation of the five little girls that comprised the purple cats.

 

Sherlock maintained a good distance between himself and the two groups at first, content to start slow. He busied himself snapping photos of the general surroundings periodically, pausing at the penguin exhibit with the ebb and flow of the bevy of families separating him from the children.

 

In the butterfly conservatory he took the chance to draw closer to the boy. The purple cats’ monitor had enlisted the services of the turtles’ woman to help contain the little girls, who were charging after the butterflies in the hopes of attracting their attention.

 

“Girls, girls! You mustn’t chase after them like that, they’re fragile!” The cat woman cried, hastening after three of her charges. The children were halfway off the path already, attempting to hunt down several _Danaus plexippus._   
  
_You could just call them ‘Monarch butterflies’ like everyone else,_ John murmured in fond exasperation.

 

_Everything has a proper name,_ Sherlock returned snippily, distracted with taking a shot of the cautious face of the boy; he’d paused several feet away from his group and seemed intently focused on something Sherlock couldn’t see.

 

_Says the man who can’t even remember Lestrade’s first name?_ John countered. Sherlock could imagine the incredulous look on his face, akin to the one he’d worn after finding out Sherlock had deleted information about the solar system.

 

_Do shut up, I’m working._

 

“No you don’t, dearie,” came the admonishing voice of the turtle woman as she grasped a fourth little girl about the waist, preventing a pounce onto a _Papilio machaon._

 

_Yellow swallowtail,_ John whispered, just to be contrary.

 

Sherlock ignored him, clicking away. He moved a few steps nearer, trying to figure out what on earth the boy was concentrating on so hard. Camera still lifted to his face, he finally caught sight of the _Aphantopus hyperantus_ delicately resting on the back of the boy’s slightly out-reached hand.

 

_It’s just a Ringlet, they’re all over the place around here,_ John voiced, surprised.

 

Sherlock noted the look of care on the boy’s face, as if greeting an old friend. A hint of that wonder was back, which Sherlock found rather remarkable. Instead of chasing after the more brightly colored butterflies as his peers had done, the boy was entirely wrapped up with a plain brown one he probably saw everyday in the summer. _Only one eye on each wing, nothing particularly fascinating about the pattern, so why does he seem so entranced?_

_Click._

 

Wrapped up in his thoughts, the detective had absently pressed the shutter; the noise startled the Ringlet into taking off for a tree.

 

Sherlock reached for something to say in the face of the boy’s disappointment. “Ah, sorry mate; made for a great shot though?” he offered.

 

The boy merely affected a ghost of a smile, not bothering to properly look at the man who had interrupted him. Sherlock seized his chance and made off towards the exit before the boy began to pay closer attention. They had the entire day in front of them, and he didn’t want to spoil the game just yet.

  


* * *

   


He loitered near the flamingoes, just outside of the conservatory. He’d wanted to regain a little ground between them, but several different paths conjoined here, and he wasn’t certain which direction they’d take. _The big cats, the bugs, or the monkeys? If it was just the boys, I’d put money on the bug house, but that purple cat monitor looked as if she wanted to stay latched onto the turtle woman for help; the girls probably won’t even be willing to step foot in the bug area._

 

He heard the wail of the purple cat woman before anything else. “Girls, _please_ , wait just a moment! We need to figure out where we want to go next!”

 

“The lions!” One of the girls shrieked, quickly drawing approving noises from the rest of her group.

  
It might have been decided then, but a little blond turtle caught sight of the sign displaying pictures of the arachnids in the bug house and demanded to go there next. He immediately clamped onto another turtle and started towing him in that direction, determined to get his way, before the turtle monitor snagged hold of his shirt collar. Sherlock noted his boy looking back and forth between the two groups, green eyes somewhat distressed.

 

The girls, just like Sherlock predicted, absolutely refused to visit the bug area. Sherlock caught a nice shot of the somewhat queasy look on the cat woman’s face; _not much for bugs herself, I’d guess._

 

But the turtle woman was apparently made of sterner stuff, because she gently suggested the purple cats go to see the lions, while she took the turtles through the bug house, then the monkeys, then on towards the cats.

 

“It’s all one big loop, you see,” she told the purple cat woman, with a soft pat on her hand. “We’ll meet you on the other side,”

 

“But I want to see the monkeys too,” one little cat with pigtails objected.

  
The first girl, the one who had sparked the outcry for lions, wrinkled her nose at that. “No you don’t,” she said bossily, “they’ll get all over your hair and pick at you for bugs!” She demonstrated, attacking the other girl’s pigtails.

 

“Kelly stop it, leave Madison alone!” The cat woman chided.

 

The turtle woman broke in then, “And look Madison, the map says there are spider monkeys and macaques in a separate exhibit right next door to the lions, too. I'm sure Miss Pamela will take you to see them while you’re waiting for us.”

 

Miss Pamela just nodded and told the girls to, “Come along now! It’s not far, and I think they’ve got a feeding show for the tigers in fifteen minutes.”

 

Sherlock snapped a few more pictures of the flamingoes to bide his time before following the turtles into the bug house. He slowly perused the exhibit, hiding behind a family with a particularly obnoxious ten year old. Sherlock was counting all the different poisonous bugs on display and the effects their toxins had on the human body to block out the annoying trio, while keeping an eye on his turtle.

 

The boy didn’t seem to feel one way or another about the various insects on display; he wasn’t overly enthusiastic the way the blond had been, who was even now zooming back and forth across the hall, nose pressed up against the glass. Nor was he vaguely apprehensive, like some of the adults carefully observing from a distance. _Food for thought._

 

They soon reached the exit of the house and headed for the “Meet the Monkeys” area, pausing briefly to exclaim over the anteaters – “What the devil are those?” came the blond’s sidekick. He was quickly scolded for language by the turtle monitor, before she read off the information plaque and ushered them onwards. _Probably wants to meet up with the purple cat woman sooner rather than later._

  
Sherlock was clicking away again - the boy’s eyes had gone wide, and he lingered near the anteaters, gaze sliding around the bushy tail, the lumbering stride, the long, thin face.

 

One last click had the boy whirling to glimpse Sherlock standing a good five meters away, camera still in place. He had a peculiar look on his face, trying to work something out. Sherlock just twisted a bit to get a different angle of the animal behind the boy, ignoring him completely.

 

The child remained only a moment longer, and then scampered off before his group had the chance to notice he was missing.

 

_He’s beginning to see,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

  


* * *

  


The monkeys had been amusing; they held no qualms about jumping around on the visitors, much to the delight of the children. But they were certainly not shy about letting people know when they’d had enough – a particularly unfortunate man had ended up with a face full of fruit for getting a little too close to an antisocial one in the hopes of a good picture. 

 

_Nearly lost your camera there, too,_ John laughed. Sherlock gave a wry smile at that: one had been exceedingly fascinated with the ties attached to the zipper of his duffel bag, still thrown over his shoulder. The detective had been caught unawares, as the monkey approached from above while he was taking photos at the outskirts. A sudden weight on his shoulders unbalanced the shot and nearly caused Sherlock to drop his camera.

 

_What the –_

_You seem to have acquired a new friend,_ John snickered. The detective arched his neck, craning around to see what on earth had happened. When it became apparent a monkey was nibbling on his zipper, he gave himself a shake, trying to dislodge it, to no avail.

  
_Where’s Lestrade and his camera phone when you need it?_ John was nearly beside himself in Sherlock’s head now, to Sherlock’s growing annoyance. He briefly contemplated ripping the creature off – _NOT GOOD, Sherlock, really not good!_ John yelled, sobering. _There’re children around, one in particular you’re trying to impress, remember?_

_I’m not trying to_ impress _him, John, I’m_ evaluating _him. There’s a difference,_ he responded. Nevertheless John’s voice had done the job and he calmly crouched to set his camera down before beginning to undo the tie on the zipper that had enthralled the creature so much. Once he had it loose, the monkey eagerly grabbed it and scurried away up a tree. The detective had stood up after him, picking up his camera once more to take a shot of the monkey, only to hear quiet giggles of the boy behind him.

 

_It seems you cannot remain unnoticed on the outskirts after all._   

 

Sherlock turned and snapped a blatant photo of the boy laughing at him, a faint smirk evident just below the camera. The boy’s giggles slowed and he gave the detective that considering look again, but Sherlock just sauntered off under the pretext of framing another shot, camera still in front of his face.

 

He had left the monkey area ahead of the children, eager to avoid anymore incidents. _I’m not a climbing frame,_ he sniffed. _I hope you teach your child that, John. I’ll not have it clambering all over me._

Mental John didn't dignify that with a response, although Sherlock did get the impression of rolled eyes somewhere in there.

 

Sherlock followed the signs to the lions’ exhibit, to head off the reunion between the turtles and cats. He found no sign of the little girls and briefly wondered if they’d finally escaped their monitor after all, until he caught sight of an entirely too calm Miss Pamela for that to be the case. Further scrutiny – _there, that’s one of the pigtails –_ showed the little girls had pressed themselves as close to the bars as possible, in front of several larger children and adults.

 

It was just as he was deciding whether to draw nearer or find somewhere more obscure to linger that his phone began to ring from within his trouser pocket. A quick glance at the screen revealed it was his brother, _probably calling to check up on me after this morning_. Sherlock knew if he didn’t answer it a whole slew of problems could crop up, so despite how little he wanted to talk to his brother just then, he ran his thumb across the screen and pulled his phone towards his ear.

 

“Yes, brother dear? I’m working,” he drawled, trying to convey the depths of his annoyance in his voice alone. He’d perfected the sulking act long ago because he knew it peeved Mycroft the most; it was less effective across the phone, but exasperation and indignation were an art form to the Holmes’ brothers.

 

“What on earth are you doing at a zoo, Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded from the other end.

 

“Data for a case,” Sherlock stated, careful to maintain the air of irritation, but not draw Mycroft’s interest too much. He began to pace on the edge of the path a bit, leaving the way clear for passerby.

 

“Something you couldn’t locate online?” Sherlock could hear the eyebrow raise, the quiet dig for answers.

 

“A question of texture,” he responded, before going on the offensive. “And do stop sending your newest minions to follow me, Mycroft, it’s getting entirely too troublesome to avoid them,” he sneered.

 

“Problems, brother dear?” Mycroft taunted back.

 

“Hardly,” he said, voice full of scorn. “I’m not someone you can conveniently lob your raw recruits on, Mycroft, so that they can gain experience before being tossed out into the big, bad world.” His eyes narrowed as he stared down a light pole nearby, emphasizing the end of his sentence.

 

“Stop having me followed, or at least be a little more subtle about it: I just might break one of your new toys,” he threatened obliquely, before his brother had a chance to respond. He took the moment of silence on the other end as acquiescence and hung up, shoving his phone back into his pocket. A beeping noise informed him he’d received a text, but he chose to ignore it for the moment.

 

He turned back towards the lions, bringing the camera back up to his face. A quick flick of the zoom feature helped him to locate the purple cat monitor again, only to see she’d been joined at the fence line by the turtles when he had his back turned. _Must’ve come up the path when I wasn’t paying attention,_ he thought.

 

He searched for the boy next, finding him against the fence as well, hand wrapped loosely around the bars as he stared not at the cats, but in the detective’s direction with a vague frown.  

 

_He_ has _noticed me then. But he still looks troubled, can’t decide if it’s just paranoia – after all, there is something of a natural progression between the exhibits; I’ve seen that girl in the green blouse on eight separate occasions to the hour, not to mention that obnoxious family that was with us until catching sight of the washrooms across the way. Let’s see what he does with it._

Though the girls were still quite enthralled with the giant cats, the boys were soon eager to be off again. Miss Pamela, seeming to have grown a spine in the time they’d been separated, succeeded in pulling her charges away from the lions with the promise of a petting zoo, and headed off in that direction. The turtles were decidedly not content to pet sheep, and thus went their own way once more.

 

They meandered through the llamas, alpacas and camels, exclaimed over the komodo dragons, and gleefully mimicked the wallabies, hopping all over the place for a good several minutes.

 

The boy had taken to walking behind the group a ways; his gaze still displayed awe over the animals, but he seemed to be on the lookout as well. Sherlock had felt eyes on him more than once, though he still kept up the pretense of photographing the animals.

 

“Harry? Do keep up, dear,” the monitor chided gently.

 

“…Sorry Miss Dana,” he chirruped back after a moment more.

 

“Are you tired? We’re almost back to the entrance, headed back to the home in a bit,” she offered kindly.

 

“No,” the boy shook his head, “I’m fine,” was all the response he gave her. _And yet he continues to separate himself from the group…_

 

_He’s trying to draw my attention,_ Sherlock realized belatedly. It had been subtle, but as the detective paused to evaluate his photos, he noted that less and less of the pictures had included the entire turtle group; the most recent shots were just focused on the boy, with a few background images here and there when Sherlock was trying to maintain his cover.

 

_Clever child,_ Sherlock mused.

“Now boys,” the voice of the monitor broke in from up ahead, “we’ve only got half an hour left before the bus will be back to pick us up.”

  
Complaints instantly cropped up, whining about staying longer. “Boys, boys! Listen up, lads. I’m letting you decide what you want to do last – the entrances to both the aquarium and the reptile house are just here. I’m going to be sitting on that bench right over there,” she pointed to a bench resting beneath a nearby tree, with a clear view of both exits, “and I’ll wait for you. Come find me immediately after you’re done, or you’ll be grounded for the next month,” she warned.

 

The boys were vibrating again – _do all children do that?_ Sherlock wondered abstractly – and quickly bolted off, three for the reptile house, but his boy and one other, a younger child who looked fearfully in the direction of the reptiles, walked towards the aquarium. Sherlock was somewhat relieved to note that it was neither the blond nor his partner, the most boisterous of the lot; after a moment, the green-eyed boy reached out and took the hand of the younger child, leading him inside.

 

_Bit irresponsible of her, isn’t it?_ John asked in a mild tone.

 

_Not really,_ Sherlock thought back absently as he dutifully slipped into the aquarium. _There’s only one way in and out of these buildings, and despite how excited they were, the boys_ are _showing signs of fatigue – they’ll be wanting to leave soon as it is._

_Her bench is also an excellent vantage point; money is it was designed that way for this express purpose._

A sign nearby requested that no photography be employed inside due to the flash upsetting the fish, so Sherlock let the camera dangle loosely from his left hand. He’d waited long enough outside that the boys were already a room ahead, so he leisurely strolled through the exhibits, brushing up on his tropical fish knowledge.

 

The next room bore the rather ominous title, “Secrets of the Deep;” images of the _Melanocetus johnsonii – alright, the humpback anglerfish,_ he thought, heading off John’s scoff – decorated the walls, including various factoids about those organisms that dwelled below the epipelagic zone.

 

_Rather ugly, isn’t it?_ John commented in response to the seemingly disproportional fish, its bulbous head entirely full of giant teeth.

 

_What do fish care for beauty?_ Sherlock disparaged back. _It’s efficient – an innocent-looking lure to draw in its prey, something that’s evolved completely naturally?_ That’s _elegance._

 

He prowled around the room as John fell silent, taking the time to read the blurbs of interest. This was information he had little use for, as it discussed the goings-on of the deepest parts of the ocean; if Sherlock had ever known any of it, he’d deleted it long ago and probably would again shortly, but it passed the time for now and was mildly diverting.

 

Having perused everything of note here, he moved on to the next room. It held several tanks set into the walls with more text about their contents, along with several pillars permitting a three-hundred-sixty degree view of jellyfish, leafy sea dragons, king crabs, and clownfish.

 

Several people clustered around the pillars and the various exhibits; a few rested on the low benches provided in the middle of the room, including the boy, who was staring straight at Sherlock. He gestured towards the spot next to him in invitation. Sherlock considered his options and joined the boy, keeping his eyes focused on the room around them.

 

“And where’s your young charge?” he inquired politely, in reference to the younger child from earlier.

 

“Joshua’s trying to get a look at the jellyfish,” the boy replied, gesturing towards one of the pillars. He took control of the situation then, stating baldly, “You’ve been taking pictures of me.” 

 

“Have I?” Sherlock asked, watching one of the crabs scuttle about its home. The boy hadn’t made it clear yet that he understood it was Sherlock, so Sherlock pretended ignorance. “I suppose you’ve been in a few of my shots, yes, but that’s hardly my fault – you were in the way of the animals.”

 

“Let me see them,” the boy demanded, surprising Sherlock into looking at him at last.

 

From this close, without the camera in the way, the boy was able to finally get a good peek at his eyes. He searched them for a moment, before letting out a quiet exhale.   
  
“Oh good, it _is_ you,” he confirmed, relaxing.

 

_Always the eyes that give me away,_ Sherlock thought.

 

_They_ are _pretty distinctive,_ John agreed at the back of his mind. _The papers have called you piercing before, because of them._

 

“Very good,” the detective said aloud, when it became apparent the boy was waiting for some sort of response. “That’s twice now, once more to go.”

 

The boy merely nodded, a somber look coming over him for a moment. He visibly pushed it away, before asking courteously, “How did you like the zoo?”

 

“It was a…novel experience,” Sherlock conceded, a faint smile easing onto his face.

 

The boy began to grin, a slow, bright look. “Monkeys not your favorite?” He teased lightly, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance.

 

Sherlock just snorted. “I think you could say he got the better of me.”

 

The boy nodded again, a happier motion than before. “I’ve never been to the zoo, either,” he confessed.    

 

Sherlock had guessed as much from the awestruck looks occupying half of his camera memory, but remained silent, letting the boy share what he wanted.

 

“It was pretty amazing,” the boy added. “I think I’d like to come back someday. The animals all seem pretty happy here; it was…nice.”

 

Sherlock wondered at that last sentence; the boy seemed to be referencing something else, but without more data Sherlock couldn’t extrapolate what, and he could tell pushing now would be detrimental. While he might not know much about people, he did know how to get information out of a witness: now was not the time to go about digging.

 

So instead he opened his mouth to impart some trivial comment about the lions, when they were interrupted by who he belatedly recognized to be Joshua.

 

“Harry? I’m done with the jellyfish,” he announced, questioningly glancing over at Sherlock.

 

The boy stood up and took Joshua’s hand again, as Sherlock looked at his watch.

 

“You’d best be off – your thirty minutes are nearly up,” he told them, remaining seated.

 

“Are you coming?” Harry asked, pausing as Joshua tried to tug him along in alarm at the news.

  
“Think I’ll have a look at the sharks,” Sherlock shook his head, pointing along the wall behind him.

 

“See you later, then,” the boy dipped his head, allowing Joshua to lead him back towards the entrance.

 

“Until next time,” Sherlock commented at his back. He reclined for a minute more, processing the events of the day. _Quite interesting, all told._ He really did get up and have a look at the sharks then, partially out of curiosity but also to give the children time to regroup. Now that he’d been ‘caught,’ it was no longer imperative he observe their movements.

 

The sharks were rather chilling, with that dead-eyed stare penetrating through the tempered glass. They were ensconced behind a huge panel occupying the entirety of the back wall; some zoo employee was trussed up in divers’ gear cleaning in the background. Sherlock observed for a few minutes before turning again to the other exhibits in the room, less interested in the sharks than he had initially thought. 

_That's been long enough,_ he decided after roaming the entire room. _At least fifteen minutes._ He made his way back outside, sunlight bright after the coolly lit aquarium. A quick glance confirmed the turtles were no longer occupying the nearby bench, so he headed towards the exit; it wasn’t far from the aquarium, as they’d done quite the loop of the park today.

 

Sherlock caught a glimpse of a school bus pulling out as he stepped through the exit; a hand waved at him from one of the back windows, and he found himself giving a quick gesture back.

 

Shaking his head slightly in surprise, he turned to hail a cab back to Baker Street. As he was getting in the car, he pulled out his phone to read the text from earlier:

 

_Be sure not to bring home any more pets, dear brother. It seems that one was enough, don't you think? – MH._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how many of you saw the word 'zoo' and automatically thought we were going to see some magic? And how many are disappointed it didn't happen?


	5. A Guest at Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see an old friend and suspicions are had.

“Sherlock, look who’s come to visit!” Mrs. Hudson cried from the stairwell, that high-pitched happy voice she used when something pleasant had happened.

 

_Someone she knows then, and hasn’t seen in a while,_ Sherlock deduced absently, mind still turning over the events at the zoo. He was reclined in his leather chair, feet in front of him and crossed at the ankle, hands idly toying with the memory card from his camera.

 

Most of his brain was occupied with lazily debating about the next and final event he would attend with the boy; another crafts day was occurring tomorrow, but he’d already made his feelings clear on that activity, and he really did prefer to have more time between visits – it gave them both space to stew for a while.

 

_Molly, perhaps?_ Another side of him suggested quietly, the one that was always partially engaged in his surroundings. _Could be Lestrade,_ John’s voice offered, clearly more interested in something new than the topic that had been circling around his brain for hours now.

_If not the crafts day, I’m left with the museum visit on Friday, or the park outing Saturday. Neither of those is ideal,_ he frowned slightly, itching to get on with his postponed visit in the staff room. _Next week’s agenda will have to do,_ he settled, taking a moment to recall the schedule. 

_Not Lestrade,_ the background voice corrected. _He would have called first if it was about a case; we don't ‘do’ get-togethers._

The voice mulled it over again, _I suppose it could be Mycroft – it would be just like him to come over and pout after I ignored his text earlier, and Mrs. Hudson won’t have known we’ve been in contact since he was last here several weeks ago. Plenty of time for her to get worked up again._

“I see you’ve gotten rid of my chair.”

_Oh_ , the background voice whispered, _hadn’t considered that._

Sherlock made an effort to bring himself fully back to awareness, already partially thrust out of his thoughts by the presence of that voice coming from somewhere _not_ inside his head. Rapid blinking rehydrated his eyes to the point where he could focus with them, and they immediately twitched to the man standing in the doorway. His body remained perfectly still throughout the entire process, aside from the slight movement necessary to palm the memory card into a pocket.

  
“John,” he acknowledged, “what are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d pop in to say hello,” John answered, taking a few steps in to allow Mrs. Hudson to pass. “The chair?” he reiterated, easily picking up the pattern of double conversation again.

  
Sherlock ran an assessing gaze over his former flat mate, digging to confirm it was just a social visit. The creases in the shirt gave the impression it had been folded for several days at least, _somewhat odd since John used to hang that shirt – decreased closet space maybe?_ Slight pudging around his belt told Sherlock that Mary’s home cooking was suiting him, although in combination with the hidden tension in his eyebrows, also indicated he’d begun to worry over the baby. _John always did have a tendency to eat his troubles._ Slight bags under his eyes said the battle-dreams were back, _not unusual considering he’s had time to settle down into routine again._

But there were no blaring indicators of a greater problem, so Sherlock returned to the conversation at hand.

“I needed to be able to see my experiments,” he said dismissively, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen counter, heavily laden with equipment.

 

“Because walking a few meters was too much work, I suppose?” John quipped back, content to be amused with Sherlock’s quirks now that he was no longer confronted with them everyday.

 

“It seemed silly when there was a much easier solution at hand,” Sherlock affirmed, in a blasé manner.

 

“Oh, ignore him John, he’s pleased to see you,” Mrs. Hudson beamed, hands clasped at her chest. “We _both_ are.”

  
John had already opened his mouth to respond with a blanket pleasantry of some kind when Mrs. Hudson reached over to pat him on the arm, “See how nice it is when you remember to come visit?”

 

John’s mouth snapped shut at that, a slightly annoyed look of contrition coming onto his face.

 

Sherlock had deduced from the initial stiffness between the two when he first returned to Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson had been less than pleased with John’s actions during the interim period of his death, and had to hide a smirk; _she’ll be hanging that over his head for the next few years at least._

“Now, sit down and tell us all about how Mary and the baby are doing,” she directed, pushing him towards one of the chairs nearby. “I’ll set us up with some tea and biscuits.”

 

John did as he was told and grabbed two of the chairs, bringing them closer to Sherlock’s own seat. Mrs. Hudson began puttering around in the kitchen, full of quiet huffs over the mess “that boy had made.” John had that smile back again in the face of Sherlock getting scolded – all was right with the world it seemed.

 

“Mary’s doing well,” he said, pitching his voice so Mrs. Hudson could hear him from where she was pulling down cups out of the cabinets. “Had an appointment a few weeks back, the doctor said she was almost to the end of her first trimester. Mary’s just pleased she’s not sick every morning anymore.”

 

“That’s the rub of pregnancy, isn’t it? At least she’s almost through it now,” Mrs. Hudson commented as she brought in the tea service. “Here you are boys, just like you like it.”

 

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” John smiled as he reached for a cup. He fixed it as he used to, no milk, two sugars, but then added an extra lump. _Developed a bit of a sweet tooth, have we? There’s those worries coming out again._

Sherlock just quirked the edge of his mouth up in Mrs. Hudson’s direction as a sign of thanks, and reached for his own cup.

 

“How’s the new house, then? Nice to be settled I’d imagine,” the landlady chattered, in her element as a host. Sherlock was content to let her carry the conversation, basking in the presence of the familiar. As long as Mrs. Hudson was prattling on, questions about his most recent activities weren’t being asked, although he wasn’t naïve enough to believe he could escape the night entirely avoiding the topic – detecting made up his entire life, after all, and there was rarely much else to ask him about.

 

But though he was delighted to see John, he really was, he found that he was eager to keep his escapades to himself. John was likely to pitch a fit and throw up all sorts of roadblocks; it was unavoidable, but not something they needed to go through right this minute.  

 

“John, won’t you stay for dinner?” Mrs. Hudson invited, after the basic social niceties were over, clearly eager to have her boys under one roof for a while again.

  
“Can’t, I’m afraid – I promised Mary I’d pick up Chinese for dinner in a while. She’s been craving soy sauce and milk lately, bit odd,” he said, face going a tad green. 

 

“Oh! That reminds me! I’ve left a roast in the oven, be right back boys,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, quickly scuttling back down the stairs.

 

“So…any new cases on since the wedding?” John inquired, elbows braced on the arms of his chair.

 

“A few,” Sherlock acceded. “I’m in the research stage right now.”

 

“Anything I can help with?” John asked, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. His eagerness came through in the careful delivery of his words, the slight clenching of his fists at the word “case.”

 

“Not at the moment, although that may change in the next few weeks. Depends on my mark,” Sherlock told him, slightly amused and secretly grateful he hadn’t lost his blogger.

 

John looked surprised at the lack of specifics, and slid an unobtrusive glance towards the wall with the smiley face, where Sherlock usually mapped out the cases he was working on. When he saw the wall was bare, he turned to Sherlock with a hint of suspicion. “Where’re the details? I’d be happy to look them over for you.”

 

John couldn’t know that Sherlock had hidden the few observations he had from his most recent actions in the back of his closet – Mrs. Hudson could be particularly nosy, and even she might draw the line at this game he was playing. So instead he simply said, “I told you, it’s at the research stage – I’ve not put anything up yet. It’s all in here,” he tapped his temple.

 

That look of suspicion melted into a grin after a few seconds’ consideration. “You’ve not got anything on, have you?” John asked, pleased with himself over having caught Sherlock in a lie. “I’m not Mycroft, you don’t have to keep up a front for me.”

 

Sherlock just gave a slight smile and a shrug, twisting to pick up the violin in the case at the side of his chair, needing something to do with his hands now that he’d finished his tea. He began plucking at the strings idly, switching from tune to tune at a whim.

 

“It’s really been that dull since the wedding?” Came John’s tentative question. Sherlock didn’t bother answering immediately, just continued plucking at his violin. He snuck a glance at John, assessing his reaction.

 

John actually looked somewhat gratified with the information, which mystified Sherlock a bit; further rumination and a snort from the back of his head supplied him with John’s voice (and wasn't that confusing – why did he need a mental version when he had the live one in front of him?) and the answer: _he’s just as happy as you are that you two are bored without each other._

So Sherlock gave a bland, “Something will turn up soon, it always does.” Better to let John think what he would for a few weeks more at least.

 

Thankfully Mrs. Hudson could be heard coming up the stairs again as she burst into the room, “Saved it! He’ll need a few minutes to cool; what were we talking about?”

 

John leaned back a little in his chair. “I was just asking Sherlock what he’s been up to these past few weeks; he doesn’t seem to have had much work.”

 

It was subtle for John, but still a dig for information from Mrs. Hudson to confirm what Sherlock had told him. The consulting detective was satisfied to see that John had been with him long enough to know better than to trust Sherlock at his word, although it was a tad annoying to have to work at hiding things from him now.

 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Hudson came through for him, sliding a smile his way, “No, it’s been quite quiet ‘round here, although Sherlock’s finally been out of the flat again these last few weeks – he was in quite a funk for a while!” She shared, always happy to provide John with a sign Sherlock cared about him more than he let on.

 

John finally seemed convinced at that, as it fit in with his knowledge of Sherlock’s tendency to sulk. No mention of the manic behavior typical to Sherlock on a case meant there truly had been little activity at Baker Street, and Sherlock hadn’t missed the perfunctory check at the door to see if he had some sort of experiment going in the kitchen. Incidentally, it had been something he’d set up weeks ago to run autonomously for a while, only requiring minimal supervision, but John wouldn’t know that without a deeper glance at his notes.

 

All in all, Sherlock figured he was in the clear. 

 

A beeping noise then indicated John had received a text, which he quickly pulled out to read. “Mary’s said the baby is demanding kimchi now, so I’ve got to track down a Korean place and get home. I’ll stop by again soon though, yeah?”

 

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed in agreement, mentally pulling up a map of London. “You’ll have to take a cab, but there’s a few over on High Holborn.”

 

“Ah, thanks Sherlock,” John said, somewhat perplexed as he stood to grab his jacket.

 

“I’ll walk you out, that roast is probably cool enough now,” Mrs. Hudson declared, reaching out to pat John on the arm again.

 

“Alright,” he nodded, opening the door for her. “See you soon, Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock just nodded and continued plucking at his strings, thoughts already back on his game, but this time with a smile on his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really more of an interlude than a chapter, but I was busy that week.


	6. An Exchange of Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock swaps personalities like hats, we find out a little of Harry's background, and Harry proves to be more observant than you might have been giving him credit for.

After John had left and Mrs. Hudson badgered him into sharing dinner with her, Sherlock returned to his computer to examine the events schedule he’d emailed to himself several weeks ago.

 

The following week was offering several promising activities: A group of traveling players was set to come next Monday, and Thursday was dedicated to “Meeting the Children.” Saturday was to have an outing to the cinema to see something called “Despicable Me;” Sherlock spent a moment perplexed at the idea of a children’s film of that title, but disregarded it shortly as unimportant. The first two events were much more ideal, as they offered the chance to explore the staff room without necessitating an extra trip.

 

_Fewer staff members will probably be present for the play; all the teachers are supposed to be available for Thursday if the potential parents have any questions about a child in particular._ He pressed his fingers together in front of his chin, meditating on the various pros and cons of each option. _There_ is _a risk that some of the employees will sneak off to the staff room during the play, but no strategy is perfect._

_One’s infiltration skills always need honing,_ he reminded himself. It was a maxim leftover from the days of his (misspent) youth, when he first began attempting minor break-ins of various locales. Sometimes he’d plan the intrusions in detail for days before attempting anything, but other times an arbitrary decision had him climbing through windows or across catwalks mere minutes later.

 

He never took anything: burglary was never the point. Rather, it was a trial-by-fire method for learning the artistry of infiltration (and he’d certainly been burnt more than once in the early days, prompting some hasty interference on Mycroft’s part). A useful side effect had been learning how to spin believable tales of every sort to get himself out of hot water, once he’d realized that a failed job meant his brother breathing down his neck for the next week. The training had sharpened his already lethal ability to think on his feet, leant speed and experience to his lock-picking skills, and taught him the value of a light step. _Quite worth the hassle, although Mycroft didn’t see it that way at the time._

 

_I knew you must’ve been a right little bastard when you were small,_ John teased, pulling him out of old memories.

 

Sherlock twitched a smile in agreement, privately pleased Mycroft had been the older of the two brothers and thus the one saddled with all the responsibility.

 

Thoughts of his youth naturally segued into thoughts of previous cases, especially in light of the fact that he would likely be interacting with players again – they made things both convenient and difficult; on one hand, sneaking in with a group of people everyone knew to be dressed up, behaving as someone else, would make it much simpler to gain entry in the eyes of the home staff. On the other side of things, people who acted for a living had an annoying tendency to recognize other people playing roles.

 

Sherlock had been called out by an uncooperative witness once, years ago, who told him she didn’t believe his grief was real because she’d worn the same face just last week at an audition for the part of Ophelia. And then she’d proceeded to kick up a noisy fuss about it; that was before he’d fallen in with Lestrade, so he’d been hauled off by the police to spend an evening in a rather drafty cell with a warning to stay away from future crime scenes. Since that experience, he’d endeavored to avoid contact with people involved in the theatre industry, with great success.

 

_Nothing for it then, I knew this would be a problem eventually,_ he scowled, annoyed to hear what sounded like John’s faint snickering in the background.

_Perhaps, if I arrive a bit late, after the players have already begun to set up, I can plead my way past the secretary and disappear before making it to the auditorium; it’s risky, considering it’s all one long, straight hallway, but it’ll have to do._

 

* * *

 

A week passed slowly for Sherlock, spent orchestrating different experiments (mostly just to spite Mrs. Hudson for dragging him to dinner) and exploring newly constructed bits of London to keep his mental map up-to-date. So when mid-morning Monday finally rolled around, Sherlock wasted no time beginning his preparations.

 

He’d slipped on a pair of brown contacts before leaving, a small adjustment to satisfy his curiosity – was the boy really matching his eye color all this time, or was it a deeper recognition? A special badge was tucked into his trouser pocket, in case he needed to make an identity swap; this one was appropriately constructed with a lion sticker (and hadn’t that been a fun trip, picking up animal stickers at the shop…), so he fully expected it to pass scrutiny. A simple jumper with the insignia of the traveling players’ company blazoned on the breast pocket was serving as the entirety of his disguise this week, although he’d run frantic hands through his hair to prompt a disheveled look.

 

Admission to the home went much the way he’d planned, almost systematically: it began with blowing by the desk monitor, spewing breathy exclamations of tardiness and apologies. A short sprint through the left door led to the backstage entrance of the auditorium, where he could already hear the noises of frenzied preparation.

Pausing at the door for half a breath had allowed him time to don the badge and tie the jumper around his shoulders, hiding the insignia. The tasks were so methodical, it was easy to mentally pull up the persona of a curious potential parent dying to learn about the theatre, an unchased dream from childhood.

 

He’d stepped through the doorway then, adopting a wide-eyed, innocent look as he peered around (and if he modeled it after the one the boy had worn at the zoo, well, it was just evidence the boy was proving himself useful already). The sound of the door opening had drawn the attention of several men and women who looked to be in the midst of hastily constructing their set. One man heavily adorned with AV equipment and a radio quickly made his way over, prompting the rest of the team to get back to work.  

 

Some fast talking and flattery had induced the stagehand to launch into a detailed explanation of his responsibilities, quickly transitioning to a passionate discussion of how electricity had revolutionized theatre – apparently the topic of the man’s thesis at university some time ago. Sherlock kept that interested look on his face, asking questions at all the correct times to spur the conversation (though he did store the details about the mechanics of the lighting – it was potentially useful information).

 

And so passed twenty or so minutes, conveniently tucked out of sight of both the staff of the home and the players, who were all being stuffed into costumes and make up in the dressing area to the right. At ten minutes to curtain rise, the stagehand received a terse call from the manager, ordering him to ensure the lights were properly set up.

 

Sherlock winced in faux sympathy, “Ah, sorry, didn’t mean to keep you from your job – I was just so interested, and the wife wanted more time with the little one before it starts, so I thought I’d sneak back here. Thanks for taking the time to tell me about everything.”

 

A subtle glow of pride came over the man’s face then, _clearly not used to much attention, but he knows how to bask in it when it’s offered. Probably a middle child. Safe guess his family’s not much interested in theatre either._

“It’s no problem, I’m always happy to talk about my work. But I’ve really got to go, or Joe’ll have my hide,” he apologized, with a nervous glance at his phone.

 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Sherlock smiled, turning to head out the stage door.

 

“I hope you enjoy the performance!” The man called belatedly, already halfway up the light rigging.

 

_Couldn’t have timed it better had I tried, really,_ Sherlock thought, already removing the name badge and pulling the jumper on again. Just before the performance was the perfect time to slip in to the staff room across the hall, as odds were good the monitors would be occupied wrangling boisterous charges into behaving in the auditorium proper, all the way on the other side of the building.

 

A few strides had him in front of the door, hallway empty. Two quiet snicks told him he’d successfully picked the lock with the kit he kept on him at all times, lodged just to the left of his belt buckle.

 

The room itself appeared standard: a set of coat hooks lined the wall to the left of the door, only three jackets haphazardly hanging. Most of the space was occupied by a kitchenette area, in front of which rested a few large, round tables and scattered seating. A door was situated near the back wall, which Sherlock suspected led to a washroom; beside that sat a snack machine, a large set of file cabinets, and a sofa. A single ficus decorated the space, pressed into the corner of the room by the arm of the couch.

 

_Functional, but not so comfortable that the staff would be induced to spend more time here than with their charges,_ Sherlock thought absently.

 

_I’m guessing you’re after the file cabinet?_ John added, trying to be helpful.

 

Sherlock just suppressed a nasty comment on the obvious and made his way over to the metal cabinetry, bringing out the pick set again when he realized it was at least locked. There were five drawers stacked vertically together, the top of which was labeled “New Arrivals,” but the bottom four appeared to be divided alphabetically, which gave Sherlock pause, struck by a realization:   


_I don’t actually know his full name_ , he thought, chagrinned, running over every interaction he’d had with the boy.

 

_Seriously?_ John’s disbelief was beginning to be a palpable force in his head, compounded as it was with his own self-abnegation. _All that time spent following him around, photographing him, and_ nothing _?_

Sherlock could barely wrap his head around it; this was something he’d been planning for weeks, but the details had somehow escaped his attention.

 

_Careless, brother,_ Mycroft chimed in with a vicious edge. _You’ve relied too much on the ease of technology and the assumption that everything would be simple since this isn’t one of your cases._

Sherlock blocked out the sneering immediately, trying to force his head back towards the problem at hand.

 

_…you’ve probably dissected all the causes of his idiosyncrasies, but you don’t bloody well know his family name,_ John continued to rant, imaginative ire burning.

 

_It’s not as if the monitors ever refer to him as anything other than “Harry,” and this is the first opportunity I’ve had to get at the files,_ he finally snipped back, defensive.

 

_You could have just asked him! Sometimes, for all that you’re the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, you really lack common sense, Sherlock._ John’s voice conveyed disappointment, the one expression Sherlock had tried harder and harder to avoid from him.

 

_The problem with having mental copies running around your head,_ Sherlock realized with a clinical dissociation, _is that you get exposure to all the extremes of their reactions with none of the cues that an eruption is about to happen._

_And they pick up on all the things you hide from their living counterparts,_ a part of him whispered _._

 

Sherlock pushed aside his hurt (and really, a mental voice shouldn’t have the ability to induce that) and focused. _I’ll just have to scan through all the files – surely they’ve got a picture – or, wait…_ he trailed off, giving a considering glance at the “New Arrivals” drawer.

 

_He did say he’d never been to the zoo before, and I’d be willing to bet the home makes that trip every year with how efficient the system was. Plus, the way he seemed to be scoping everything out when we first met – if he’s really not a regular bullying target, which doesn’t seem the case, why bother to do that in a place you’re familiar with?_

John grumbled in the back of his head. _It’s not impressive when you deduce it after screwing up the first time._

Sherlock ignored him and set to work on the top drawer, slightly relieved that there only appeared to be seven files. Quickly paging through them proved they did indeed contain a small photograph stapled to the top right corner, and, luckily for Sherlock, the boy’s file was one of the first few.

 

The detective spread the file out on top of the cabinet, skimming through the contents. From a glance, he could tell it was thinner than some of the others _, arrived_ _not long ago then, maybe not even two weeks before we began this game. I doubt he’s lost family that recently, the grief would be a little more prominent; no, this was another sort of orphaning._

  
Sherlock could feel John grimacing a bit at that, but he kept silent.

 

_Full name: Harry James Potter… how very British. Not shocking, I suppose, he certainly doesn’t have the coloring reflective of foreign blood,_ Sherlock reflected, thinking back to that pale skin and dark hair.

 

_Recent transfer from St. George’s group home, near Surrey – that explains the need to establish familiarity with new surroundings. He’s more nurturing than I originally thought, too, if he’s already started taking care of the younger ones in such a short time._

_Bit odd, isn’t it?_ John asked. _Surrey’s a fair distance from the city, how’d he end up here?_

_Doesn't go into detail, just lists variations on “Slight disturbance to other children, not a great fit, etc.” But the psych evals from the councilors are consistent with what I’ve observed, “quiet, unassuming, needs to be brought out of his shell, high intelligence level demonstrated when prompted, somewhat uncomfortable with compliments.”_

_I suppose the home in a suburb like Surrey would be smaller than this facility, so maybe they were just trying to open up some space,_ he mused absently, more interested in the reports from the councilors.

 

_What’s the reason listed for his placement in a home in the first place?_ John inquired, prodding Sherlock into flipping the page.

 

_One of the teachers at his primary school noticed something off at the beginning of last term, apparently called it in several times over the year until she was taken seriously. The boy never said anything, but investigation into the home proved verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of the uncle, suspected physical – although the boy’s kept silent every time they try to ask him about it._

_Uncle? What happened to his parents then?_

Sherlock turned to the last page; _deceased, car accident, five years. He’s been with the mother’s sister and her husband and son ever since. The aunt’s up for a count of criminal negligence too – she wasn’t the perpetrator of the abuse, but she let him sleep in a cupboard and never took action against the husband._

Sherlock muted the sounds of John’s disgust and impotent rage and ruminated over the information he’d been given. It all fit in with the observations he’d made about the boy for the last few weeks – wariness over an uncle would certainly induce the development of sharp observation skills, and neglect could prompt the caretaker tendencies. _He’s smart and guarded, but not broken – it’ll be a good fit._

 

Though he was wrapped up in thoughts of the boy, his ears were ever attuned to his surroundings, and caught the sharp click of heels coming up the hallway. He rapidly replaced the files and shut the cabinet drawer, hoping that whoever came through the door way wouldn’t notice the top cabinet was still unlocked. A quick step to the right placed him in front of the snack machine, a much more innocent position, just as the door handle rattled.

 

“-Hello, what are you doing in here?” A blonde woman asked him from the entryway, suspicion blooming on her face.

 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just that the woman at the front desk – Sandra? Sara? – mentioned a snack machine was in here; I’m starved, and they don’t need me till the second act to help swap costumes. Have you got any change?” he said in a quick rush, a self-deprecating grin plastered on his face.

 

The suspicion melted out of her eyes, cheeks tilted in a smile, as she took a few steps further into the room. “Her name is Sarah, and I think I can help you out – snuck back here for the same reason myself. I swear, looking after tots works up an appetite!”

 

Sherlock let loose a laugh as she started rummaging around in her purse, hoping it didn’t sound as false to her ears, “That they do – my brother’s got a pair himself, right firecrackers. I always demand dinner when I’ve had them for the day.”

 

“Here you are then,” she said with a polite smile. Sherlock passed over a few pound notes in exchange for the coins and turned back to the machine.

 

“My thanks,” he said cheerily, picking out a packet of crisps he vaguely remembered as a brand John favored. He made his way out with a “Ta!” over his shoulder, escaping before she could drag him into any more small talk.

 

He’d already gotten what he came for.

 

* * *

 

The play had just about hit intermission, so Sherlock slipped into the auditorium, back in the guise of a parent, and tried to find an unobtrusive seat away from the door – he didn’t want the woman from before to recognize him immediately when she returned.

 

The set up of the auditorium was very similar to the night of the concert; cafeteria seating had been pushed to one side in favor of rows of foldable chairs in front of the stage. This time, there were few enough adults present that the children were occupying the chairs as well, monitors dotting the line here and there to easily intervene should attention spans wander.

 

He immediately dismissed the few empty seats in the back row, choosing instead an empty one on the left side four rows up next to a nine- or ten- year-old girl; she barely spared him a glance, attention locked on the scene’s climax.

 

_No sign of the boy yet, though it’s really too dark to scan the audience well._

From the last few minutes of the first act, Sherlock was able to surmise that the players were doing a rendition of Peter Pan; it seemed he’d come in right as Peter was returning the rescued Tiger Lily to her people, prompting a celebration. The children were cheering as the curtain closed, the monitors already standing up to usher their charges towards the washrooms.

  
Sherlock fiddled with his phone throughout the entirety of intermission, attempting to look engaged enough that he wouldn’t be approached by any of the other adults chatting to each other. He kept an eye out for the boy of course, but it was half-hearted, figuring the best chance to find him would be after the play had finished.

 

The second act began with Peter talking to his Lost Boys and Wendy, hatching some plot to harass Captain Hook; Sherlock absently noted that the group was better than he’d been led to believe from their online reviews, but didn’t pay much more attention beyond that, still circling around the information he’d learned that day.   

 

At the conclusion, Sherlock stood immediately and took a few steps to lean against the nearest wall to avoid being stepped over. He pulled out his phone, figuring he could wait until everyone had vacated the auditorium before he went in search of the boy, _probably headed for the playground after this – they look as if they need to burn off some energy._

 

It took a bit for the monitors to organize a chorus of “Thank Yous” from their charges, but shortly thereafter a raucous stream of keyed up children already proclaiming themselves the next Peter Pans or Wendy Darlings began winding towards the exit. Nearly thirty seconds later, just when the detective was debating the merits of texting his brother an improvised code to annoy him, Sherlock felt a light tug on his sleeve.

 

It was quickly released, but the detective followed the small hand up a short distance to the green gaze waiting for him calmly. There was still a bit of flush in the boy’s face, likely from the thrill of the play, but a hint of solemnity there too – _wonder where that’s from?_

 

_He found you much quicker this time than at the zoo,_ John pointed out, _how’d that happen?_

_We’re back on his ‘home field,’ as it were. Plus I’d imagine he picked up on something from all that free observation at the zoo, some new tell. I’m not exactly actively hiding here,_ Sherlock responded.

 

“You got your eyes to change colors,” the boy remarked with a trace of surprise, once he’d gotten a good look at Sherlock’s face. “Is this like the moustache?”

 

Sherlock chuckled a bit at the conclusion and the immediate proof that the recognition _was_ deeper than just matching shades. “Quite like it, yes,” he confirmed. “This doesn’t need any glue though; I’ll show you later, if you like.”

 

The boy nodded, mind obviously occupied trying to puzzle out how Sherlock had accomplished such a feat. “Would you like to go outside? I think there’s still another half an hour of visiting time,” the boy offered, a shy note in his voice.

 

“Lead on,” Sherlock said, gesturing with one sweeping arm. The boy cracked a smile at that, and joined the line of people moving towards the exit.

  
Sherlock kept his face down and away once they drew closer to the doors – the blonde woman from before was nearby, engaging another monitor in conversation, and he wanted to avoid that encounter if at all possible.

 

His luck seemed to hold true though, for they shortly spilled out into the hallway and were on their way towards the double glass doors that led to the playground.

 

Sherlock watched as the boy surveyed the fenced-off area with an all-encompassing glance, eyes cataloguing the hotspots of activity with the efficiency Sherlock had noted before. He seemed satisfied after a few seconds, and began marching off towards the spot of fence where they’d shared their first conversation. Sherlock trailed behind him silently, observing the set of narrow shoulders before him.

 

They took their time getting settled, Sherlock once again nestled against the bowing fence, the boy just barely perched on the edge of his log. The silence between them was restless, both parties eager and maybe somewhat afraid of the coming conversation – Sherlock could see it in the twitchy motions of the boy’s knees, knew it in himself in the slight drumming of his right hand against the log supporting him. He took a breath and flexed his hands, more to regain control than anything else, before launching in.

 

“Alright, let’s hear them then, your three truths,” Sherlock said, a degree of hidden trepidation underlying his voice. “And why you know them to be true, as well. You always need a reason,” _or it’s all too easy for people to doubt you,_ came the unbidden whisper.

 

The boy took a moment to steel himself, gathering courage and formulating his thoughts. “The first thing was something I learned the night of the concert – I came up behind you, remember?” he asked, not really looking for confirmation, just helping set the story.

  
Sherlock nodded anyways – that had been vivid, turning into that green stare unprepared.

 

“And that man was being silly, almost crashing into everyone with how he was waving about. I didn’t figure it out until we watched the performance, and I wasn’t sure until I asked Miss Jane about it later, since he was doing it so wrong, but I think he was pretending to play the violin, right?” The boy rambled, expelling everything in one fast breath.

 

A pause, and he continued, “And you, you called him that word that got Daniel in time out last week, so I think,” he looked up into Sherlock’s eyes here, “I think you know something about classical instruments. Like maybe how to play one properly?” he surmised, the end of his statement rising into a question.

 

_An educated guess at best,_ Sherlock mused, but gestured his assent. _I could just as easily have been disgusted with his behavior or noise level as opposed to his playing, but still, the boy’s demonstrated some degree of logic and research here._

“Number two?” Sherlock prompted, when the boy blinked up at him owlishly from behind those thick lenses.

 

Demonstrating more composure now that he was certain Sherlock wasn’t going to reject him outright, the boy took a deep breath and began again.

  
“Number two – your brother’s name is Mycroft,” he stated with confidence.

 

Sherlock’s mask of detached interest slipped then, honestly surprised at this revelation. _Mycroft wouldn’t have kidnapped him from the home, would he?_ He’d never known his brother to have anything to do with children, hadn’t expected this level of paranoia –

 

And as usual, it seemed he’d run away with himself, because the boy continued his explanation with: “You mentioned him that first day, said he didn’t have time for you anymore. And then at the zoo, you’d been following us and taking all those pictures, so I was keeping an eye out for you. Everyone ran up to the fence once we got to the lions, but I saw you on the phone and got distracted trying to figure out what you were doing. You said his name then, and yelled at him quite a bit.”

 

_I’ve no one to blame but myself for this one – I knew the boy would be coming up behind me, and I could’ve ignored Mycroft’s call,_ Sherlock thought with quiet bemusement (and a hint of displeasure, tacked on at the end: _Sloppy, even for a game against a child)._

_That pause earlier,_ the part of his brain that was always evaluating his surroundings interjected, _just after the first truth, that was the boy reassuring that he wasn’t going to get in trouble for eavesdropping – the look of relief is all over his face still, in the relaxed eyebrows._

_So he’s a sneaky thing,_ Sherlock noted, _with surprisingly good hearing and an ear for the important parts of a conversation. I wonder if that’s always true, or only when he’s prepared for it; he already knew to pay attention for our game – will he be as skilled when it’s unexpected?_

_Damn good recall, too, for conversation at least,_ John broke in.

 

Sherlock took a moment to be mildly appreciative of this fact – he remembered so much that he often forgot to be impressed when others recalled minutia as well. John sneered at him a bit for that, but left off retorting in the face of the boy’s third truth.

 

“And the last…” here the boy trailed off, giving Sherlock that weighty, assessing gaze he favored. He seemed to come to a decision fairly quickly this time, though when he persisted, it was with gravity in his words.

 

“The last truth is that you’re lonely, sir,” he announced with a shrug, “why else would you play this game with me?”

 

It was all Sherlock could do to meet those eyes, thoughts somewhat stunned into silence. The detective was taken aback, once again faced with something unexpected from the boy in front of him: this truth was so different from the previous two, but so much more right in a way.

  
Some distracted part of his brain was revising his earlier estimate – _not a lucky guess then, but actual_ perception, _that’s rare._ This was insight into the human heart, something he’d only recently come to understand courtesy of John and the others; something this child had apparently noticed since the very beginning of their acquaintance.

 

_Yes,_ John whispered in quiet approval. _This one will do._

 

“Er…” the boy prompted when the silence had apparently lingered for too long, “How did I do?”

 

“Right,” Sherlock said at last. “On all counts.”

 

“So, the prize; can I ask for something, sir?” He asked, eyes eager.

 

John snorted, _that’s children for you – they’ll drop something profound, from the mouth of babes and all that, then turn right around and get distracted with a toy or sweet._

 

Sherlock latched onto this request like a lifeline for his floundering thoughts, trying to reorient himself. _A request is much better,_ he chided in John’s direction, _it’s something he actually wants – insight into a person’s desire is no small thing. Besides, can’t you see how wary he is? He’s expecting to be denied._

 

“A wish? What did you have in mind?”

 

_Careful, Sherlock,_ John winced. _Don’t promise him anything, he might want something impossible – children do that._

“Can you tell me your real name? Only, this has been the first game I played with anyone else that I liked, and I don’t want to keep calling you the chameleon man in my head,” he blushed.

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose of its own accord. “Chameleon?” he asked. Inwardly, he shot a smug look at John. _See? Mine asks the important questions._

 

The blush only darkened, eyes glancing down and away. “We saw them at the zoo – they change colors like you do, so it fit,” he said, somewhat apologetically.

 

Sherlock bit off a bit of a chuckle then, an unmistakable smile coming to his lips.

 

“I’ve been called many things, but I suppose that’s rather apt considering the circumstances.

 

“You may call me Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

 


	7. Familial Contemplations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock explains a bit and asks for a favor, and Mycroft drops a bombshell.

_Sherlock bit off a bit of a chuckle then, an unmistakable smile coming to his lips._

_“I’ve been called many things, but I suppose that’s rather apt considering the circumstances._

_“You may call me Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”_

 

If Sherlock had been waiting for some sort of dramatic response from the boy at the revelation of his name, he would have been disappointed – all that crossed his face was a hint of confusion over the words ‘consulting detective.’

 

_Really, a window is less transparent; he’s worse than John. I’ll have to teach him how to form a closed expression before anything else._

“You…detect things? Like how things happen?” the boy asked slowly, piecing together a thought. Despite finally receiving the name he’d asked for, he was clearly more interested in the second part of Sherlock’s sentence. _How intriguing; a fan of mysteries, perhaps? Though that’s not exactly the reaction I’d expect…_

A cloud parted then, the weak afternoon sunlight breaking through to glint off of the boy’s ill-fitting glasses. The glare masked the boy’s eyes, abruptly shaking Sherlock from train of thought. A shift in the prismatic reflections on the dirt in front of them told Sherlock he’d been silent too long – the boy was fidgeting, trying to figure out what had grasped Sherlock’s attention.

 

The last few thoughts still lingering on his mind like an unexpected flavor, Sherlock finally nodded. “Usually the “whys” as well. Although,” he felt compelled to add, “I admit they interest me little.” 

 

The boy cocked his head to the side, seeming to look up at Sherlock in a new light. The palpable air of determination emanating from him puzzled the detective. _And was that a flash of apprehension?_

 

Sudden yells from across the playground had Sherlock’s head twisting round before he’d realized, breaking the thoughtful atmosphere. A quick glimpse informed him it was only a small squabble, but by the time he’d turned back to his companion, the moment had been lost.

 

Sherlock found himself a bit disappointed; _he looked to be gathering himself for something. I should’ve liked to know what it was._

 

The small form in front of him ( _Harry, you’ve got to start calling him Harry,_ John nudged) had followed his gaze, studying the three boys arguing across the way. As the voices started to rise, he started unconsciously rocking back and forth, chewing on his bottom lip absently.

 

_A comforting motion, I believe. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it,_ Sherlock thought distantly. The detective contemplated in silence for a moment or two more, playing out scenarios in his head.

 

_Yes._

 

He stood up abruptly, jarring his seatmate. “I’ve got to go,” he said, glancing down at the boy ( _Harry!)._

 

The child floundered for a moment, clearly at a loss, before finally bursting out with, “Will I see you again?” The slight gleam of desperation had entered those eyes, before a (failed) attempt at indifference scabbed over.

 

Sherlock favored him with what John might have called a fond look. “I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you sooner than you’d think,” A parting wink for good measure, and then he strode off.

 

It was time to go visit his brother. 

 

* * *

Sherlock’s arrival at his brother’s manor was heralded by little more than a quick text message rapidly sent off from the backseat of a cab:

 

_I’m coming over._

_\- SH_

Despite the short notice, he was greeted at the door by the austere butler his brother had engaged for the last decade or so with, “Mr. Holmes, you’ve been expected.”

 

A solemn man approaching his mid-sixties, Gerald Rathbun gave new definition to the word “expressionless.” _Perhaps the boy could take lessons from him,_ Sherlock thought with a wry smile, _though it might be overkill._

 

Sherlock’s opinion on the man oscillated on any given day: he was employed by Mycroft, which meant he was eminently competent in a wide variety of skills, a refreshing change from the day-to-day people Sherlock often found himself surrounded by.

 

On the other hand, he was employed by Mycroft: Sherlock had felt obligated to dislike him on principle in his younger, (more) contrary years. Gerald held propriety in the highest regard, and passed judgment and disapproval out like party favors with but the barest lift of an eyebrow. Sherlock had derived great pleasure in picking at the man when he first came to work for Mycroft, which Gerald had returned with the driest of humor.

 

Sherlock’s two year absence had left them at somewhat of an impasse; try as he might to hide it, Sherlock’s observant nature had caught the slight relaxation in posture, the quiet exhale of relief, and the careful trace of eyes seeking potential injuries. _All additions that can be dated back to my return from Serbia_. It had the detective rather perplexed for a response, so he settled for his usual method of dealing with unexpected demonstrations of emotions and bulldozed right through it.

 

He ignored Gerald’s belated attempt to take his coat – _why he still tries for it is beyond me, I never accept –_ and made for the study, Mycroft’s habitual haunt of choice at this hour. Gerald trailed after him, that familiar cloud of displeasure finally beginning to radiate at Sherlock’s continued flouting of societal niceties.

 

Sometimes Sherlock wondered if that was entirely why Mycroft kept Gerald around – a blistering reminder of all that is and is not socially acceptable; _god forbid Mycroft should slip and behave outside the norm_. He rolled his eyes at that, before pushing through the large, mahogany door that led to the study.

 

Mycroft was seated at his desk, a few files stacked uniformly in front of him. He’d glanced up at the sound of the door opening, eyes flitting from his brother to the butler behind him.

 

“You’re dismissed, Gerald. I think I can take it from here,” Mycroft sighed, the echo of annoyance tingeing his voice. He leaned back into his chair, closing the file in front of him with a heavy hand.

 

“Some refreshments, sir?” Gerald pressed, snapping into his preferred posture. “Tea?” A wary eye at Sherlock. “…Brandy, perhaps?”

 

Mycroft spared a tired smile, “Not today, I think.”

 

The seated man turned to look at Sherlock then, gaze sweeping, assessing, deducing. Sherlock matched him look for look, but held his tongue.  

_We’re all impressed with your restraint, Sherlock,_ John remarked dryly.

 

“Why don’t you sit, brother mine?” Mycroft gestured to one of the leather chairs in front of him.

 

Sherlock pondered making a point of remaining standing, but a snort from behind had him sinking into his seat with an easy grace. He was tempted to curl up and yawn at the man like an overgrown cat to prove only he controlled his actions, but the gravity of his errand put a stop to those behaviors.

 

Mycroft twitched his lips; it was no secret he’d long been amused by the enmity between his brother and his butler, but Sherlock had ensured any snide comments on the matter were repaid with interest – the first and only remark had inspired Sherlock to devote three whole days to reorganizing Mycroft’s entire house (files, books, kitchen ingredients…the list went on) the next time he was called out of town.

 

“That will be all Gerald, thank you,” Mycroft repeated, nodding towards the door.

 

“Yes, do go on, Gerald, we’ve things to discuss,” Sherlock couldn’t help but drawl, ostensibly examining the linen of his trousers for lint. A sigh blew through the back of his mind, but he ignored it with the ease of long practice in favor of relishing in the tangible annoyance seething behind him as Gerald exited at last.

 

The click of the doorjamb signaled a change in atmosphere almost like the flip of a switch. Backs straightened, facial expressions blanked out, and gazes locked on both sides. Sherlock took a moment to cross his legs, hands clasped in front of him, before presenting his case.

 

“I have something I’d like you to do for me, Mycroft,” he said, eyes steely.

 

Mycroft braced his chin on his folded hands. A long, considering look was exchanged then, silence spanning the table between the two brothers.

 

“Are you quite sure? This isn’t the same as with John,” Mycroft cautioned finally, leaning back in his seat.

 

Sherlock didn’t even bother asking his brother how he knew what Sherlock wanted; ignorance was a façade at best between them – one had to really work at it to keep something from the other if they were paying attention. He merely gazed steadily back at his brother, and gave one, slow nod.

 

“I know, but I think it’s time for something new.”

 

“Are you certain I couldn’t offer you someone a little more…self-sufficient? As you so kindly pointed out,” here his face pinched together in a simpering smile, referencing their phone call from last week, “I'm simply bursting with new recruits that could do with your particular brand of polishing.”

  
“Boring,” Sherlock shot down immediately. “Like I told you before, I’m not on hand to make things convenient for you,” he intoned, biting into that last “t.”

 

Eyebrows rose. “Is that not exactly the purpose I’m serving for you, now?”

 

“I approached you because I’d like to do this quickly, within the legal channels. I’m not opposed to other methods.” A beat of silence. “You are not my only option, merely the one I contacted first, Mycroft.” Sherlock paused to draw breath here, fierce expression relaxing. “Consider it a favor between brothers.”

 

The eyebrows stayed high, indicating the perceived hypocrisy of that statement.   


Sherlock scoffed and lost his crisp posture, irritated that his brother was being so intractable. “I’m asking for five minutes of your time and a signature at best, Mycroft. You want months of mental agony from me.”

 

Mycroft’s face twisted into a bit of a grimace, conceding the point. “I suppose it would be bad form for your brother to drive you to murder. But I am not sure that this course of action is wise, brother mine.”

 

“Probably not,” Sherlock agreed wryly, “but it’s what I’ve decided to do. Baker Street could do with a fresh breeze blowing through.” _As could I, for that matter. It’s entirely too quiet without someone else puttering about._

 

The examining eyes were back, lips pressed against his laced index fingers. Despite the silence between them, Sherlock knew his brother was busy constructing various scenarios and forming contingency upon contingency.

 

“Very well,” Mycroft agreed finally, lifting his chin off his thumbs. “I’ll procure the paperwork and have it sent to Baker Street by this evening.”

 

Sherlock suppressed a triumphant smirk. Having to go to his brother had been annoying, but really the most expedient option; it was foolish to hope he could hide the boy from Mycroft forever. _If he’s going to be involved, it might as well be from the foundation._

“My thanks,” Sherlock said as he stood, already itching to get back to Baker Street ( _so much to do, must notify Mrs. Hudson, clean up a bit, acquire a beginner’s chemistry set, so much, so much!)_. It was as much of an acknowledgement as Mycroft was going to get, but thankfully the Holmes brothers had been reading between the lines their entire lives; the gratitude did not go unnoticed.

 

“And Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice cut through the storm of planning, “I expect to meet him properly, sooner rather than later. He’s to be my nephew, after all.”

* * *

  _“He’s to be my nephew, after all.”_

 

The words echoed in Sherlock’s head for the entire duration of the car ride back to 221B, chasing him up the stairs and into his own leather chair in a daze.

 

For a moment he wanted to curse his brother, for giving those words that particularly ringing inflection – _he did it on purpose, the bastard._

 

_Of course he did it on purpose, Mycroft does_ everything _on purpose,_ his mind asserted, strained with just a hint of what might have been hysteria.

 

_You understood before, in an abstract way,_ he told himself, chastising. _Why is it different now?_

_Because the label “nephew” associated with my brother implies a person also related to me…a_ son _._ The immediate disconnect that thought brought on halted all layers of thinking; it was all Sherlock could do to gaze unblinking at the kitchen.

Mental-John’s wince cut through everything from its previous silence. _I never thought I’d have to say this Sherlock, but I can’t picture you as a father._

Sherlock absently thought he should be feeling vaguely offended at that – he hadn’t yet met a challenge he couldn’t conquer, thank you very much – but his wellspring of reactions seemed to have dried up at this point.

John’s voice continued, quietly. _Maybe you can’t be a father, but what about a guardian?_

 

It was just an exchange of terms, but therein lay Sherlock’s redemption. _Guardian,_ he tasted slowly, as if testing for cracks. _That could do. Like a mentor, but with a few more responsibilities. And those won’t even matter in the long run – I’ve picked a good one,_ he reassured himself _._

Like a wilted flower receiving water after a period of drought, Sherlock began coming back to life. His background observation kicked on again, absently noting that Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the flat while he was away. He could smell the scent of chicken wafting up the stairs, spiced heavily with lemon; _must be near six-thirty then,_ he thought with surprise. It had barely been half-four when he arrived at Mycroft’s.

 

_I still have to let Mrs. Hudson know someone’s going to need John’s room. After that the paperwork should’ve arrived and I can get everything signed._ These were safe topics to think on, easy enough to process.

 

While Sherlock had never been one to second-guess himself (enough people did that for him, why add one more to the pile?), it was only intelligent practice to plan everything out. This… _plot_ of his had bypassed the planning stage weeks ago, though; there was little more to do now than finalize things.

 

_And avoid any more hysterical fits,_ John added sagely.

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called as he trotted down the stairs. “I’ve found someone to let John’s room!”

 

He took a few more hours to meditate on this whole… _guardian_ notion in the morning. It basically boiled down to: he wanted a companion, he wanted _this_ companion – he just had to keep the boy from dying of starvation or stupidity before he reached eighteen. The one he’d picked was smart, had all that ingrained wariness built in, so the latter was less likely. As for the starvation…well, that was why they had Mrs. Hudson.

 

Feeling much more at peace with the entire decision, the rest of Tuesday was devoted to acquiring the necessities; while he had intended to do so anyways, it had the added bonus of removing Sherlock from the presence of an entirely too bubbly Mrs. Hudson. She had barged in with his tea at a rather ungodly hour that morning, babbling all the while – he’d tuned out most of her exclamations, and thankfully she departed up the stairs shortly thereafter with a bucket of cleaning supplies. Pervasive humming and chortling had interrupted his thoughts for the rest of the morning.

 

Wednesday could not come soon enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, the temptation to throw in, “What is necessary is never unwise,” after Mycroft’s comment was SO hard to resist. Plausible excuses for Sherlock to be exposed to pop culture cannot come soon enough.
> 
>  
> 
> (Someday, there should be a crack!fic, in which Sherlock begins to use movie wisdom as credos to live his life [possibly due to blunt force trauma to his head, because let’s be real, concussed!Sherlock could be the most entertaining Sherlock]. I’m not funny, so someone should make this happen.)


	8. Wading Through Procedure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock is fed up with the system, and the system has had quite enough of Sherlock. There may be an adoption in there, too. And Mrs. Hudson is made of win.

Wednesday morning at precisely half-ten, Sherlock Holmes pushed through the double doors of the St. James Group Home. He strode right up to the service desk with his usual glide, where Sarah blinked up at him in surprise.

 

The consulting detective had wanted this to be a day in which all pretenses were dropped, and wore a face that matched accordingly: his professional demeanor, blank but for the barest spark of excitement. Between the sheer cheekbones, the piercing eyes and the smart cut of his jacket, he was unknowingly giving off the perception of a man with sharp edges. Sarah had begun fidgeting in discomfort the moment he’d walked in the door.

 

“I’d like to adopt a child,” he announced with little fanfare, gloved hands coming to rest against the files he had tucked in the crook of his arm.

 

The woman stared, bewildered. “What? Oh! Um, let me just –” she stammered, eyes passing over him before flitting to her desk. She lit up after a second though, beginning to rummage through a drawer before surfacing with some papers. _Clearly she draws comfort from the familiar arms of bureaucracy and procedure…how dull._

 

“– if you could please fill out these forms –”

 

“No,” Sherlock replied, not in the mood to be kind and doddle. “That won’t be necessary, I’ve everything right here.”

 

The older woman pursed her lips at the cold response, and Sherlock wondered if he should have bothered with the niceties after all. “I see. I’ll just take a look at those, then,” she said, eyes already on the proffered pages. A practiced hand reached out to withdraw a pair of spectacles from the top drawer even as she pulled the files closer.

 

Perusal of the documents apparently required several long, drawn out minutes. _She must have had enough time to read through them three times over by now,_ Sherlock thought exasperatedly, fighting the urge to browbeat her into cooperation.  

Finally, _finally,_ she looked up at him with wide eyes. “But these already have a child listed? I don’t understand, we’ve no record of you visiting any of our children, Mr. Holmes. Do you have a prior claim on Harry from before he was placed in the system?”

 

“No, nothing like that,” he negated, following the vague backstory Mycroft had provided him. _Perhaps not done with every pretense after all._ “I visited him a time or two at the home in Surrey. I’ve been away on business for a bit, but when I returned to town I found out he’d moved to this location.”   

 

“Yes, he’s been here for quite some time now.” There was a slight relaxing in her posture after his spiel, a lowering of her shoulders. _It makes her seem smaller,_ Sherlock thought, _like a bird that’s finished puffing up his plumage._

 

_I suppose she was distressed at the idea that someone would want to adopt a child he’d never met…_ Sherlock debated very briefly about bringing up the sob-story face he used on witnesses, raving about some ‘instant connection’ with the boy when he first met him to play on her heart-strings, but discarded the idea in almost the next breath. While it might deliver Sherlock more quickly to the boy’s side, it also had the potential to backfire. Witnesses could be nuisances, but this woman likely had the power to deny him something he was coming to want very badly.

 

Feeling a little more comfortable and back on familiar ground, she gifted him with a soft smile and a suggestion: “Would you like to arrange an interview with Harry today? I’m sure you have quite a few things to catch up on if you’ve been on business for long.”

 

Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist in his pocket in an effort to halt the words itching to come out of his mouth: _I don’t want an interview, you twit, I explained my purpose here very clearly upon entry. I am here to adopt a child, I’ve even told you which one I want and provided all of your silly paperwork, now go make it happen!_

 

“An interview would be ideal, thank you,” he gritted out. Though gracious was not a face he wore often (and made incredibly difficult by clenched teeth), it suited the situation and seemed to satisfy the woman. Sarah gave a pleased nod, all smiles again with the belief that she had delayed a hasty decision.

 

“One moment please,” she said primly, a hand already on the phone. She spoke into it for a few moments, arranging for someone named ‘Mrs. Roberts’ to bring Harry to the staff room for an adoption interview. Sherlock just kept silent and tried to refrain from fidgeting.

 

“Well, I suppose you don’t really need one of these, as you’ve already met with Harry before, but just in case,” she broke off, typing something on her computer.

 

Sherlock had an idea as to what she was alluding to, but it was the whirr of a printer from behind the desk that confirmed his suspicion. Sarah twisted in her chair, quickly gathering materials from around her workspace, before turning back to present him with his very own nametag, the proper name listed at last. _A monkey sticker as well…_ It immediately brought to mind the trip to the zoo, earning a wry smile from the detective. A quick, searching glance at the receptionist confirmed she hadn’t been insinuating anything – while perhaps paranoid, it had become habitual for Sherlock to check more closely on any subtle, suspicious actions after _Jim_ from _IT_ had slipped by him.

“You should look into changing your ink cartridge soon,” he murmured, noting the slightly faded type of his name.

 

A bland noise of agreement, and then, “If you’ll just follow me, I’ll take you back to the staff room for your little chat with Harry.”

 

The staff room was much the same as it had been two days ago, although Sherlock noted the snack machine had yet to be restocked. A young woman in her mid twenties was occupying a table nearest to the kitchen. The papers sprawled around her and red pen in her hand would have told Sherlock she was a teacher at the home, even if he had missed the more subtle signs: _chalk in her hair, from brushing back her bangs, hand puppets stuffed into the pockets of her dress, a silver apple necklace – someone enjoys clichés, although,_ he conceded, _perhaps it was a gift_. 

 

Sherlock took a seat at a table on the opposite side of the room, closer to the couch and vending machine. He watched as Sarah wandered over to speak with the teacher, ostensibly inquiring after some of her students. Their voices dropped low for a moment, and Sherlock caught sight of a darted glance in his direction from the teacher. _Money says Sarah’s asked her to keep an eye on me during this little ‘interview’ then. Good practice, although not exactly high security here…she could do very little to stop me were I an actual kidnapper._

The two women chatted for another minute or so before Sarah traipsed back over to his side of the room; Sherlock was at a loss for why given the lack of conversation, until the door finally opened and a third woman entered, leading the boy.

 

Harry surveyed the room with a pinched, worrying expression _(likely thinks he’s in some sort of trouble)_ before catching sight of Sherlock. His face turned almost hungry then, disbelief prominent as his eyes darted around a second time, reassessing his initial thoughts of what was happening. Or so Sherlock hoped, anyways. _He could be looking for who’s the authority in the room, or simply confused._

 

But Sherlock didn’t miss the quick look at his nametag as the boy drew closer, and suppressed the urge to crow in delight at the intelligent precaution. _He doesn’t want to blow my cover; how prudent,_ Sherlock thought, pleased.

 

“Mr. Holmes!” the boy exclaimed, happiness suffusing the words.

 

A noise of confirmation from Sarah, who Sherlock had quite forgotten when the boy walked in the door, finally informed the detective of her reasoning for returning to his side: _She wanted a look at the boy’s face to ensure he knew who I was; the door swings open to the right – her view would have been blocked had she stayed near the teacher._

“Harry, Mr. Holmes here has asked to set up an adoption talk with you,” Sarah said kindly, with soft, fond eyes. Sherlock was treated to the sight of blatant surprise on the boy’s part, and nodded in agreement when searching green found his own content grey.

 

“Mrs. Stewart will be just over there for your chat, so you let her know if you need anything, and we’ll leave you to it,” Sarah finished, one last pause to let Harry speak up if he was uncomfortable with anything. When the moment passed, she collected the second teacher and made her way out the door, returning to her post.

 

Pen scratches filled the air for a while. Sherlock watched as the boy relaxed enough to straighten up and take a few uncertain steps closer.

  
“You…you really want to adopt me?” He asked finally in a quiet tone, either not eager to have his voice carry or simply not capable of more volume at the moment.

 

Either way, Sherlock matched his low voice, his own baritone smoothly sliding into the register. “I do,” he confirmed gently.

 

“But _why_?” The boy demanded helplessly, hands flying up to tug at his hair. He’d come close enough that Sherlock chose to make a slight gesture to the chair next to him before answering. The boy clambered up without hesitance, which pleased Sherlock to no end: _already comfortable following my nonverbal suggestions; that implies he’s open to learning and guidance from me. Perfect._

 

“I asked you when we first met to play a game with me; you might remember that I mentioned I’d been in that disguise for some time,” Sherlock began; he’d considered carefully how he wanted to explain this the day before. While many children would be too excited at the prospect of gaining a home to question the reasons much, he knew Harry was different – he was too wary of his surroundings, too careful around adults, too self-contained to react differently.

 

“The funny moustache, yes, I remember,” the boy piped up. He was leaning forward on the edge of his seat now, small legs swinging slightly the way children tended to do in seats too large for them.

 

“The reason I was in that disguise, going around to children’s homes, was that I was looking for a special child, one who possessed what I consider to be the most important skill,” Sherlock revealed. “The ability to observe.”

 

A beat for thought. “You want to adopt me because I told you your moustache looked funny?” Harry asked, face screwed up in a questionable manner, having translated Sherlock’s words for himself. “But I bet lots of kids saw that, they just didn’t say anything.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded. “But the nerve to speak up is also a fine quality; some have it in excess and overstep their bounds, but you always think before you speak, don’t you?”

 

Harry shrugged then, looking away. _I’ve touched on a remnant of his past, I suspect._

“It’s important,” was all the boy said, an echo of the answer he’d first provided when Sherlock had questioned his surveillance of the playground at their initial meeting.

 

The consulting detective was not good with feelings; this was a certifiable fact anyone who had met him could and would confirm. But he had known going into this interview that he was going to need to be a little more open and find the words to convey all of the things he barely understood. _Meet the boy halfway,_ John prompted.

 

“That it is,” Sherlock nodded in agreement. “You also told me that I’m lonely, which is quite an accurate assessment, I assure you. I used to function best alone,” he gave a wry smile, “or at least I thought I did. But then I met someone who showed me in no uncertain terms that that is simply not the case.” A quick glance showed the boy was all ears, gaze locked on his once again, so Sherlock continued. _You’ve always been my saving grace, John. Perhaps that will carry over here as well._   

 

“My best friend,” he still relished in the ability to claim a friend at all, “Dr. John Watson.” He paused, beginning again with a soft look. “He’s gotten married now, so I decided to try something new as well. I’ve been searching for a companion, someone I can teach all of my skills to; you have the potential, Harry,” he acknowledged, using the boy’s name for the first time aloud. “Our game showed that: you’re quite intelligent, self-composed, and very observant.”

 

A breath. “Do you think you might be interested?”

 

The boy was looking up at him with eyes so wide they seemed to take up half his face. “I, I want to, but…” Harry trailed off, casting a distressed glance towards the teacher in the corner before looking back at Sherlock. He leaned in closer, as if conveying a secret. “Sometimes,” the boy licked his lips, voice suddenly raspy, “sometimes I do weird things.”

 

It had all the air of a confession, which puzzled Sherlock; this was not a turn he had expected this conversation to take. He searched for a safe response, before settling for a truth. _He’ll find out eventually anyways._

 

“John tells me I do as well,” the detective shared. When it became apparent the boy was still at a loss for what to say next, he continued, “I play the violin at odd hours, sometimes I don’t talk for days at a time, and I can enumerate the differences between two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash, to name a few of my quirks.”

 

The comments had drawn a weak smile from the boy, but he was still looking uncertainly towards the teacher. “The point is, Harry, that I’m not an easy person to live with; I’m a man of many flaws, but if you can accept those, I believe I can handle anything from your end of things.”  

 

He cleared his throat then, suddenly considering another reason the boy might be lacking words. “That being said, if you do not want to leave your life here, I would understand–”

 

“No! That’s not it, not it at all,” Harry rushed to answer him, leaning forward again to snatch Sherlock’s sleeve from where it rested on the table. Sherlock was surprised by the action, and absently caught sight of Mrs. Stewart looking over with concern. But his attention was all on the boy, whose eyes were swelling with something delicate. _That’s hope,_ John provided.

 

“I’ve not been responsible for another person, before. I might be terrible at it,” Sherlock warned, but the serious tone he’d meant to convey was lost somewhere along the way. He swallowed. “But I’ll try, if you’ll have me.”

 

The boy considered for a half second, losing that desperate, scared look, before responding frankly, “I’ve never really had a responsible adult before the home, so I don’t see why I need one now.”

 

That startled a laugh out of the detective. _So mercurial_ , he thought. “Are you game to give it a go, then?”

 

“Yes,” the boy said quietly. A little firmer then: “Yes.”

 

Sherlock gave a pleased nod, abruptly standing to stride over to the teacher in the corner. “Who do I speak to about adopting Harry?”

* * *

 

Mrs. Stewart had been somewhat dumbfounded, but had called someone, so Sherlock returned to the boy and they discussed small things for a while, both in need of some levity. Sherlock learned that Harry’s favorite color was red, that he liked the monkey bars because he enjoyed heights, and that he found ninjas intriguing because they could pass anywhere unseen. In turn, Sherlock had shared that his favorite color was blue, because many of its pigments were produced by iron complex cyanide reactions, some of the first chemical experiments he had conducted, that he was a master of hide-and-seek, and that he was quite fond of pirates.

 

Harry had just begun to clumsily repeat a few of the Arabic words he had picked up from one of the other children in the home when a female voice interrupted them from the door.

 

“Mr. Holmes, if I could have a moment of your time?” It was phrased like a request, but Sherlock was certainly familiar with the insistent tone that labeled it a demand.

 

Sherlock suspected this was the woman the teacher had called; the no-nonsense voice suggested he might finally be getting somewhere in this process (part of him had feared Mrs. Stewart had simply phoned Sarah in an attempt to delay him). He tossed a nod at Harry, who was looking uncertain again, and rose silently.

 

Mrs. Stewart cleared her throat, drawing up a warm voice. “Harry, dear, why don’t you come help me with some marking? I need someone to put the ‘great job’ stickers on these papers.”

 

Sherlock heard the boy cross the room to sit at the test-ridden table before the staff door closed behind him, leaving him face to face with a sharply dressed figure; _she’s got the air of a businesswoman or lawyer of some sort, that shark-like quality. Balance of probability says lawyer, considering her affiliation with the home._

 

The woman was on the younger side of thirty, clearly fierce in demeanor; she still had the fire in her that came from working with injustice, one that hadn’t been dulled by facing too many broken children.

 

“The St. James Group Home has a policy of conducting extensive interviews with all of its potential parents,” she said with a thin smile. “I have quite a few questions for you.”

 

Sherlock shot his own razor-edged smile at her in response. “Lead on.”

* * *

 

The interviewer, a woman named Ms. Tate, had led him to one of the unused classrooms down the hall before launching into what would have surely been a daunting and exhaustive interrogation for anyone else.

 

(You’ve listed your occupation as a ‘consulting detective;’ is this a paid position? Do you feel you have adequate time to care for a child? What if anything should happen to you in the line of duty, have you thought to make preparations for Harry in that event?)

 

As it was, Sherlock answered to the best of his ability, if somewhat curtly. He provided five character references promptly upon request (when and how Mycroft had finagled those, he did not even begin to speculate) and maintained his composure throughout by silently deducing as much as he could of the woman’s past, studying her as much as she was studying him.

 

_(No nail polish, pantsuit, high heels, but not stilettos, hair in a severe bun – has a history of not being taken seriously as a woman in her field, then. Probably tried for tax law or corporate before this. But the noodle necklace – obviously a gift from one of the residents – and her current occupation suggest a weakness for children…)_

 

It was dull, but at least he hadn’t descended into audible mocking yet. And so it went, for forty-five minutes, until she was moderately satisfied (or had at least stopped eyeing him as the enemy). Finally, she explained that the home reserved the right to conduct another interview(s) at any point in the adoption process, and led him back to the staff room.

* * *

They returned to find the two remaining occupants in much the same position as before, although Harry had taken up coloring on some spare bit of paper while the teacher was grading yet another set of spelling tests. Both looked up at the sound of the door opening; the teacher quickly returned to her task, but Harry tossed a questioning look at Sherlock.

 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards in the smallest hint of a smile, but it was enough to have the boy untucking his legs in a scramble to hop off the chair. He scampered over to them quickly, bringing an arm up to hastily smooth down his hair.

 

Ms. Tate smiled down at the boy. “Let’s take a seat, shall we?” she prompted, heading for the round table Sherlock and Harry had occupied earlier, probably in an attempt to maintain the illusion of privacy from the teacher.

 

“Harry, Mr. Holmes, I’d like to discuss with you the next steps in the adoption process,” she said, making eye contact with each of them in turn. Sherlock noticed that Harry earned an extra smile; _she’s making it very clear who the priority is in this situation,_ he thought with some satisfaction _. As it should be._

 

“There are three stages to this,” she continued. “In stage one, one of our social workers will be assigned to your case, and will visit Harry at,” she paused to look down at her notes,” 221B Baker Street several times over the next two to three months. These visits will be both planned and unplanned, to make sure we are getting the full picture.”

 

The boy looked a bit alarmed for a moment, so she reached over to pat his hand. “We just want to make sure you’re happy, Harry.

 

“Stage two will consist of monthly visits petering out into bimonthly visits at your case worker’s discretion,” she continued. But she’d turned her attention back to Sherlock, and missed the flash of confusion on the boy’s face at her word choice.

 

Sherlock wanted there to be no misunderstandings between them over this process, so he broke in to explain: “She means that, once the case worker decides it’s a beneficial – good – situation for both of us, her check-ins will decrease from once a month to once every two months.”

 

Ms. Tate granted him a surprised, but pleased expression. “After she’s satisfied, you’ll go to stage three, where you might only receive a visit or two a year.”

 

“If things don’t,” throwing a considering glance at Harry, she reconsidered her next few words, “if things don’t work out, for either of you, or if you wish to make use of some of the counseling services available through the home, here are copies of our numbers for both of you.” She handed them each a small business card with multiple numbers listed; Sherlock watched as Harry took his, biting his lip and peeking hastily in the detective’s direction. The detective gave him a small nod, not entirely certain what he was reassuring the boy over, before tucking his own card away with all the rest of the papers.

 

“Would you like to go home with Mr. Holmes today, Harry, or would you like to wait until tomorrow?” Ms. Tate asked kindly.

 

Harry deliberated for a moment, before turning to look at Sherlock. “Will I be able to come visit my friends again soon?”

 

“No reason we couldn’t,” Sherlock replied, a bit surprised the boy was close enough to anyone he wanted to visit – every time Sherlock had come upon him, the boy had held himself rather separate from the others. But then, the image of a younger boy being tugged along behind Harry at the zoo came to mind, and things snapped into place. “I won’t have any cases on for a while,” he assured.

 

“Then I’ll go today, if Miss Jane promises to tuck in Joshua tonight,” he decided, with an eye on the teacher in the corner, who had been trying (but failing) to hide her eavesdropping.

 

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Mrs. Stewart agreed hastily.

 

“Excellent,” Ms. Tate smiled. “I’ll just call down your social worker, Lacey Williams. She’ll drive you both back to– ”

 

“Baker Street,” Sherlock provided, when it was clear the woman needed prompting.

 

“Yes, Baker Street, to make certain it’s a suitable environment. Harry, why don’t you run upstairs to collect your things? You didn’t drive, did you, Mr. Holmes?”

 

“No, I prefer cabs,” Sherlock stated, vaguely annoyed at the intrusion into his space, even if it had been somewhat expected.   

* * *

The three separated at the lobby, Harry flitting up the stairs and Ms. Tate to call down the case worker, leaving Sherlock to linger on one of the armchairs against the wall in an effort to avoid being drawn into conversation with the receptionist again.

 

A clatter from the top of the stairs a few minutes later drew Sherlock’s attention. One lone, battered suitcase was clutched in small hands; it looked disproportionately large next to the boy and it hit Sherlock then that here, what he was looking at, was an entire world for this particular child.

  
Sherlock had never been attached to material things, but he’d always _had_ them, the benefits of growing up in an upper middle class family. John had come sparse to Baker Street as well, accustomed to the life of a soldier living on modest means; but the doctor had fought for his presence in 221B from the first moment he stepped foot there, with the comment about Sherlock’s clutter. Looking at the boy from the bottom of the stairs, Harry seemed so small then that it would be easy for him to be lost in the flat, swallowed up by experiments and dust.

 

_Well, I was looking to share my world. He can have a piece of it until he makes his own._

 

“Ready to go then?” Some time in the last few seconds, Ms. Tate had reentered with a dark skinned woman, who Sherlock presumed to be this Lacey Williams character. Introductions were made all around, files crossed hands, and Harry gave one last hug to a teary Sarah when she emerged from her behind desk.

 

The car ride was largely silent; Lacey had attempted to make small talk at first, but it was clear neither Sherlock nor the boy were much for conversation. Harry spent most of it with his nose pressed to the glass of the back window, watching London’s life pass them by. Sherlock occupied himself eyeing the boy in the reflective surface of the windshield and cataloguing changes in the London surroundings.

 

At the beginning, every time the car had slowed down, Harry had taken to looking around eagerly. When it became evident that they had quite a ways to go, he’d settled down a bit, so he was unprepared for the noise of Lacey sliding the car into park when they finally pulled up to the curb in front of 221B.

 

“Here we are,” Sherlock announced, taking the initiative to exit the car first. He went around to retrieve the boy’s bag from the boot, pulling out his keys along the way.

 

“We’re just up the stairs,” he told them both upon entry, feeling uncomfortably like some sort of tour guide. “Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, lives on this bottom floor. She’s in and out quite a bit.” A quick gaze around revealed to Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson was thankfully out for the moment, gone to the shops for dinner, he speculated. _Don’t want to overwhelm the boy anymore_.

 

They were up the stairs in a matter of moments. Sherlock looked towards Harry then, trying to gauge how the boy was feeling about all of this; thankfully, he appeared too consumed in curiosity over all of the little knick-knacks in the living room to be distressed over a new environment.

 

Lacey, Sherlock noticed, was poking around the kitchen area, lifting up some of the cleaned beakers on the counter. Having anticipated that he would not be allowed to take the boy without some sort of inspection of his flat, Sherlock had done his best to clean up most of the experiments he’d had running. He’d not been to Bart’s in recent weeks, so luckily there were no body parts around currently – that had been his main concern, since both John and Mrs. Hudson still tended to vehemently object to those sort of experiments, and they were already quite used to his habits.

 

He breathed a sigh of relief when she left the lower cabinets alone: he couldn’t bear to interrupt the study he’d been doing on the long term effects of different types of acids on various materials (cement, highly acidic dirt, tarmac and the like), so he’d stashed it down there, out of the way.

 

“My room is just down the hall, along with the washroom,” he said, keeping up the running commentary to fill the silent scrutiny. “Your room is upstairs, Harry; Mrs. Hudson aired it out yesterday. We’ll have to get you some of your own things, of course.”

 

Harry looked up at him, a bit surprised. “Why don’t you go put your things away?” Sherlock suggested then, having run out of rooms to show them.

 

Lacey smiled at that, and followed Harry up the stairs for a quick minute. Sherlock could hear quiet footsteps treading around from above, and busied himself with making tea to give his hands something to do.

 

A single set of adult footsteps on the stairs had Sherlock bracing himself in case she found something inadequate. _Grin and bear it,_ he thought, _you can fix the little things easily enough. Mrs. Hudson will be over the moon to assist you._

 

“Not exactly a child’s room,” she remarked blandly from behind him.

 

Sherlock stiffened for a moment, before turning to find the woman leaning against the entryway; _how was he to know what a child’s room was supposed to be like?_ Sherlock’s current room didn’t differ all that much from the way his had looked as a boy; different bedspreads and sheets, of course, and he supposed the walls were a different shade, but the set up was much the same. “I wanted to give him the chance to decorate it to his liking,” he said finally.

 

It seemed he had passed some sort of test, then, because Lacey made a noise of approval and cracked into a small grin. “It seems like everything is in order, Mr. Holmes, so I’ll just trot up to say ‘bye to Harry, and you’ll be hearing from me again within the week. Stacey provided you with my number, right?”

 

Recalling the card he’d been given, Sherlock assumed Stacey was referencing Ms. Tate and nodded.

 

“Wonderful. I’ll be seeing you soon!”

* * *

 

By the time the kettle was whistling, Lacey had gone and Sherlock had found two clean-looking cups to serve tea in. A creak on the stairs behind him a few minutes earlier indicated Harry had returned, but the silence between them lingered, both parties uncertain where to go from here.

 

Sudden banging from the downstairs door opening and shutting made the boy jump, right as Sherlock began pouring the tea. The familiar pattern of keys clinking into a dish, followed by the thunk of vegetables and cans hitting a counter assured the detective that Mrs. Hudson had returned.

 

“Sherlock!” She called, now on her way up the stairs, “I picked up a chicken for dinner tonight, and if you don’t help me eat it, I’ll call John!”

 

Rolling his eyes at Mrs. Hudson’s idea of a threat, Sherlock peered over his shoulder in time to catch sight of Harry’s bewilderment. He shot another reassuring smile, inwardly reflecting that he’d used that expression more times today than he likely had in his entire life. _A trend that will probably continue._

Sherlock brought the teacups over to the table, nearer to where Harry was rooted. “Milk?” he asked companionably, blatantly ignoring the impending arrival of his landlady.

 

The boy startled a moment at the question, before nodding and stepping over to the fridge to pick it out for himself. Sherlock was appreciative at the initiative; _there’s that adaptability kicking into gear again._

 

“Sherlock? Are you ho–” Mrs. Hudson asked again, breaking off when she came through the doorway and noticed him perched near the table. “There you are!”

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted with a reproachful voice, before she’d had a chance to catch sight of their guest frozen in the corner, “my new flat mate moved in today. It was quite remiss of you to be out when he arrived,” he teased, lifting a corner of his mouth.

 

“Well, if you’d told me when he was going to arrive when I asked you about it yesterday, I’d have been here!” She admonished good-naturedly. “Is he upstairs, then?”

 

Sherlock’s slight beckoning motion had Harry stepping cautiously away from the fridge to set the milk on the table, drawing Mrs. Hudson’s attention. Sherlock had the pleasure of observing as the landlady’s face ran the gamut of emotions, from surprise to dismayed understanding, to elated enthusiasm as she realized Harry’s presence meant there would be a child around to spoil. Sherlock knew she liked to pretend now and then with Sherlock himself, overgrown child that he was, but it wasn’t the same; the dependence wasn’t quite there the way it was between a true child and an adult.

 

“Oh! Sherlock, when you said you’d be continuing to cover the second rent as well, I thought – well, it doesn’t matter what I thought,” she said, coming to terms with the situation quickly. _The boy’s not the only adaptable one,_ Sherlock thought fondly. Turning to Harry, she softened her voice and asked, “Are you hungry, dear?”

 

Harry looked at Sherlock for guidance; Sherlock merely gave an encouraging eyebrow raise in response, wanting to break that habit of turning to the nearest adult for direction (but also secretly pleased it was him that Harry had turned to).

 

“Yes?” Harry answered, though it came out more like a question due to the rising tone. _Testing the waters, good for him. We did wind up skipping lunch, didn’t we?_ Sherlock realized absently. Food was never high up on his priorities, after all. _Though I suppose that will have to change,_ he thought, eyeing his charge.

 

“I’m Mrs. Hudson, but you can call me Nana, if you like,” she offered with a genial smile. “What’s your name, dear?”

 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow entirely for the landlady this time, surprised at this response but gratified at the easy relationship blossoming between the two.

 

“I’m Harry,” the boy introduced shyly.

 

“That’s a good name, love,” she told him gently. She brought her hands together in a clap then, asking, “Now, would you like to come help me with dinner? I have some potatoes that could do with some peeling.”

 

Sherlock watched as his young charge brightened, nodding furiously; _is he happy with the notion of dinner, or of being given a task?_ Sherlock wondered, already interested in seeing new sides of the boy.

 

In short order, Mrs. Hudson had ushered them both down the stairs to wash up, but not before catching sight of the detective’s expression. “That’s quite enough out of you, Sherlock Holmes,” she blushed.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I blatantly trampled all over the correct adoption procedures. I don't even know what correct British adoption procedures actually are, but I terribly hope they involve some more background checking than this. I didn't want to write out six months of visitation, but at the same time, I didn't want Sherlock to get off completely scot-free either, so we have this mix of very rushed procedure. Assume Mycroft is heavily exerting pressure somewhere, if that helps. Don't hate me for it, I'm lazy XD.


	9. Testing the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mrs. Hudson shows her true colors, and Sherlock and Harry start trying out this whole 'living together' thing.

_I might have to reevaluate Mrs. Hudson’s potential threat level,_ Sherlock thought with a touch of chagrin.

 

Not even five minutes after steering the boy into her downstairs apartment, the inquisition had begun. Sherlock was relegated to a seat at the table out of the way; Mrs. Hudson was halfway convinced he inspired chemical rebellion in any kitchen he had the misfortune to inhabit, and Sherlock was perfectly content to quietly observe from the fringes. _It’s best to let them have an untainted first interaction,_ he’d told himself. _Independence needs to be developed early._

 

John’s voice in the back of his head snorted, unimpressed. _You’re just trying to stay out of the line of fire. Someday the silent, inscrutable routine isn’t going to cut it, Sherlock._

 

Sherlock didn’t bother dignifying that with a response, attention focused on the unexpected scene in front of him.

 

The consulting detective had spent _years_ perfecting his interrogation techniques. Each method was carefully tailored to the type of person he was trying to get information from: the steamrolling genius, for obnoxious officials, particularly of the New Scotland Yard variety; the coldly detached daredevil, for time-hardened criminals and thugs he needed answers out of quickly; the palm-greaser, for his indispensable homeless network; and the tender touch, for the newly grieving or weak of spirit (…still reporting varying degrees of success on that last one).

 

Each approach comprised of a careful conglomeration of different elements, the result of years of trial-and-error experiments. He’d been punched, slapped, laughed at, thrown in jail, and rather memorably, stabbed once, in the pursuit of these techniques. He considered himself an old hand at them by now, thought he’d seen every trick in the book. So it was with an understandable level of mystified fascination that he observed the interactions between Mrs. Hudson and his new charge.

 

_Apparently her preferred method involves food preparation,_ he noted fastidiously;it was a delicate mix of subtle pressure and demanding presence all at once. _And so cleverly hidden beneath that sweet demeanor_.She’d taken taken one considering look at the seated Sherlock, but the immediate dismissal on her face was obvious. Instead, she’d come at Harry with a vegetable peeler and enough fishing questions that the detective had been sure the boy would clam up and retreat, only to find he was a sudden fount of information.

 

Sherlock slid his gaze to the small figure camped on the opposite side of the table. He was skinning potato after potato with practiced, even strokes, exposing a familiarity with the task.

_Is he weak against the grandmothering type, or is this Mrs. Hudson’s specialty, I wonder?_ Sherlock thought with a clinical sort of interest, filing it away with the other data he was collecting on his charge.

 

The detective watched as the old woman coaxed details out of Harry bit by bit, patiently pushing towards the big, important topics: where he came from, when he was expected back, and how on earth he’d gotten involved with Sherlock.

 

The kind yet pointed investigation she doled out while doctoring the chicken had the boy scrambling to reassure her that Sherlock hadn’t kidnapped him from somewhere, that the detective had (as far as the boy knew), begun the adoption process legally. Despite coming from that guileless green, the beady-eyed look the landlady cast at Sherlock told him she wasn’t convinced. Harry was sharp though, and hadn’t missed the expression either; he’d rushed to explain their game next, trotting over to bin the leftover peels.

 

_That_ little anecdote had merely earned the detective the most severe pursed lip he’d seen yet, although Sherlock remained unruffled.

 

Harry had sensed things were going south when the chopping ceased its steady rhythm; he cast a wary glance between the woman, the remaining handful of tubers, and Sherlock, before fading into silence.

 

Mrs. Hudson stewed for a minute more, until she finally noticed the tense hush in the kitchen. She took in the boy’s hunched shoulders, and visibly relaxed. “You and I will be having _words_ later,” she promised the detective, a sharp glint still in her eye. “Now, Harry dear, tell me what your favorite subject in school is?”

 

The atmosphere lightened perceptibly with the return of her bubbly nature. Sherlock watched his ward hesitate, looking between the adults again, before explaining quietly that he thought he might be partial to math, but wasn’t really sure. “I liked learning my letters, too,” he added. “Reading is fun, but hard sometimes.”

 

Dinner continued relatively painlessly thereafter; Sherlock was pleased to hear the boy articulating his likes and dislikes, and took note of the fields he actively tried to avoid (any extensive details about his time in Surrey seemed to be a touchy subject: no mention was made of old friends, old teachers, or old guardians).

 

_Mrs. Hudson seems to have adjusted as well,_ Sherlock marked, observing as she absorbed the boy’s words and let him dance around the taboo topics. Every now and then she shared a story about Sherlock himself, trying to drag a laugh out of Harry. Mentioning the time he’d been escorted to Buckingham palace naked earned a full-on giggle, which she seemed to take as a sign of victory.

 

Dinner ran quite late, but cleanup was a quick activity; by the time they all made it upstairs, Harry was fighting a whole string of yawns.

 

“Let’s get you to bed, dear,” Mrs. Hudson proposed gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It seems you’ve had a big day.”

 

A questioning glance was tossed in Sherlock’s direction, to which he nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning; we can talk then.”

 

Harry nodded in return, a determined look coming over his face; he reached over to brush Sherlock’s sleeve, uttered a soft, “Goodnight,” and doubled timed it up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson cracked a smile and set off after him.

 

Sherlock stared after them, face inscrutable, before turning to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

* * *

 

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson began, worrying at her lip. She had ensconced herself in John’s newly returned armchair, settling in for a serious conversation. “Have you _really_ adopted him? You can’t just get his hopes up and turn him back in at the end of the month, you know!” she exclaimed quietly.  

 

Sherlock ignored her irritated tone. “I’ve started the process, yes,” he answered cagily. “We’ll have to see if it’s a good fit, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”

 

Her gaze went inwards, the teacup he’d given her earlier clasped unconsciously between aging hands; he’d been apprehensive that she would drop it, so absent had been her actions, but years of perfunctory preparation had taken over. He’d eased into his own chair as soon as the last splash of milk had gone in, prepared to defend his actions.

 

A sigh, and she focused on him again. “Just when did you decide to do this?”

 

“I began pursuit of the project a few months ago; Harry’s only been involved for the last four weeks or so.”

 

The landlady narrowed her eyes at him. “Does this have something to do with that mess in the back of your closet? I couldn’t make much sense of your notes, but now that I think about it, he bears a startling resemblance to the boy in the photo.”

 

Sherlock looked away mulishly and pushed back into his seat. _She’s nosier than I’ve been giving her credit for,_ he thought with a grimace _._

 

This prompted a raised eyebrow, a knowing tilt to her mouth. “He’ll need some more things,” she said at last, relinquishing the teacup to the side table. “He only brought the one case?” she asked, looking for a denial.

 

_Ah, discussion closed,_ he thought, pleased _._ A rush of warmth filled him then – she was already making plans to take care of the boy. There had always been an underlying faith between them, and he appreciated it now more than ever: she didn’t bother questioning his ability to handle this, just asked how she could help.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

 

A pursed lip. “I’ll take him in the afternoon then, unless you’d like to?”

 

Sherlock snorted at that. “I haven’t the foggiest what all he needs, and I mean to pick up a few more things for his lessons from Bart’s–”

 

Mrs. Hudson sat up straight, “Don’t you dare bring more body parts into this flat, Sherlock Holmes!” she burst out. “At least give the boy a week to get used to you.”

 

But Sherlock just waved her off with a hand, “–just some glassware to get him started on basic chemistry. Perhaps one or two solutes I’ve run out of. We won’t get to body parts for quite a while, I think,” he said dismissively.

 

Mrs. Hudson watched him carefully for a moment; _she’s either decided I’m telling the truth, or that it’s just not worth putting up a fight,_ he mused.

 

“Alright. Will you remember to feed him lunch if I leave you two alone? I’m supposed to meet up with Dotty over on Marylebone, ‘round noon.”

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, “I think we’ll go out – I want to bring him by Angelo’s.”

 

She stared off into space again, wearing the look she got when she was thinking about taking care of someone. “Off to bed for me then,” she said eventually, rising to her feet.

 

Sherlock watched as she automatically took the tea things back into the kitchen, absently reaching out to snag his violin. He’d just begun plucking out a tune when she stopped by his chair, placing a hand on his shoulder. No words were exchanged, just a brief squeeze, leaving him to his music and thoughts.

* * *

Unless drugs were running through his body, Sherlock came back to consciousness much the way a machine powered on: there was nothing, and then complete functionality, systems immediately taking in input.

 

The first thing his brain noted the next morning was a quiet murmuring creeping through the hallway door, followed by the muted clang of something metallic coming into contact with a wooden surface. _Pots on the kitchen table,_ he labeled absently.

 

A second later, and he processed that information. _Mrs. Hudson must have come up to make breakfast. Apparently I’m not to be trusted with food anytime soon,_ he thought wryly. _I bet she leaves something in the fridge for lunch, despite our conversation last night._ A yawn escaped then, and he briefly weighed the pros and cons of going back to sleep. _Better not,_ he told himself with a tinge of regret, _it sounds like the boy is up as well._

 

Sherlock stretched out on his bed for a moment, alternately tensing and relaxing each muscle group as he organized his plans for the day. After he confirmed everything was in working order, he rose and slipped on his dressing gown from its hook on the back of his door.

 

A glance at his bedside clock told him it was just past half nine. _I suppose Harry’s an early riser then,_ he mused. _Or a light sleeper – could have woken up when Mrs. Hudson began cooking. Perhaps she can be convinced to take over in the mornings?_ he thought with a small measure of hope – while he’d do whatever was necessary for a case, Sherlock wasn’t awake before nine as a general rule, unless he’d never gone to bed to start with.

 

He padded down the hallway with near-silent steps, pausing at the entryway to survey his kitchen. Green eyes locked onto Sherlock’s position immediately; the boy had twisted around from his perch on a footstool near the sink. From the water splashed on his shirtfront and his dripping hands, he’d been washing the skillet sitting in the drying rack.

 

The measuring stare was back, and he’d started chewing on his bottom lip – signs Sherlock had linked to a nervous state of mind. _He’s trying to gauge my reaction again, but to what?_

“Good morning, dear!” Mrs. Hudson’s bubbly voice rang out from her seat at the table. She only got a few words into her next sentence, the usual drivel about tea, before he dismissed her in favor of examining the boy closer.

 

Something yellow had latched onto the sleeve of the oversized, faded grey t-shirt he was wearing _– bit of egg,_ Sherlock decided, catching sight of broken shells in the bin. _Has Mrs. Hudson already fed him? That was easier than expected,_ he reflected, pleased.

A humming noise cut in then, derailing Sherlock’s train of thought; his gaze darted sharply to the left, trying to pinpoint the source. Mrs. Hudson was still babbling in the background, but the boy spoke quietly, offering: “The oven’s kicking on again. We didn’t know when you’d be up.”

 

Sherlock was a little confused at the slightly apologetic tone, but nodded after catching sight of a red light on the appliance.

 

“ –and Harry made breakfast this morning, isn’t that nice?” Sherlock swung his attention back to the landlady to find her staring at him pointedly, giving an unsubtle nod in the boy’s direction. “I was just saying how _thoughtful_ it was of him, right, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock stared blankly at her for a second. _What’s she on about, now?_

_She’s trying to give you a clue, genius,_ John prodded from the back of his head. _Some appreciation is in order – positive reinforcement, remember?_

 

“Er, yes,” he mumbled, looking back to the boy, “thank you, Harry.”

 

“No trouble,” was the muffled response, before the child stepped off of the footstool, stepping over to the oven. He pulled on the side drawer to grab a potholder, unlatching the oven to retrieve the previously unaccounted for eggs.

 

_I don’t remember having eggs or cheese in my refrigerator,_ Sherlock speculated when he caught the scent of sharp cheddar. The platter was brought to a waiting pad on the kitchen table, which had been set for three places.

 

The detective continued to observe the quiet, but purposeful puttering around; toast, butter, jam and a tea service shortly joined the eggs on the table. _He knows exactly where everything is,_ Sherlock noted with some degree of surprise; _he must’ve been up for longer than I thought to familiarize himself to this extent. I don’t think Mrs. Hudson would have shown him; she stopped opening my drawers after the toe incident._ Sherlock saw him pause only once, digging around in the cutlery drawer to come up empty. The boy gave a soft frown, clearly thinking to himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, before repositioning the footstool to snag the large serving spoon in a vase on the counter.

 

“Sit down, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson interjected, calling him over from the hallway.       

 

Sherlock settled into the chair beside her at her prompting. Harry joined them shortly, passing the spoon to Mrs. Hudson first.

 

“Thank you, Harry, this looks wonderful.” She smiled at the boy, serving herself up some eggs.

 

Sherlock busied himself doctoring his tea with a splash of milk, feeling Harry’s observant eyes on him throughout the entire ritual. He added some to Mrs. Hudson’s tea for her and passed it across the table. The landlady returned the favor, handing him a piece of toast. He took a perfunctory bite and stared into his tea, thoughts swirling again.

 

“Do you not like eggs?” Came a sudden, shy question. “I can make something else, if you prefer?”

 

Sherlock blinked back into focus. “They’re fine, I suppose.” An elbow in his ribs urged him to continue. “I don’t eat very much as a rule – digestion is a waste of energy, interrupts my thought process.”

 

“It’s true,” Mrs. Hudson added when Harry continued to look dubiously at him. “I have to practically wrestle him to the dinner table so I know the silly fool gets at least one meal a day.” She cast a disparaging glance at the detective. “Ever since John left, I’ve been terrified I’ll come upstairs to find you passed out from low blood sugar.”

 

Harry’s face turned alarmed at that comment; he took a firm hold of the serving spoon, dishing a generous helping of eggs onto Sherlock’s plate. “I’m not big enough to be of much use if you faint, so you better eat,” he warned.

 

Sherlock was about to reply that he was certain the boy was capable of ringing the police or fetching Mrs. Hudson, only to realize Harry still hadn’t taken any eggs for himself; he raised his eyebrow at the boy’s plate instead, the hypocrisy implied. Harry squirmed for a second, but clearly knew what the detective was asking. He shifted his gaze sideways and muttered, “Wanted to make sure there was enough.”

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, suspecting this was a leftover habit from Harry’s previous life. “Well, there’s plenty,” he replied. “Go ahead and eat.” 

* * *

 

When breakfast was finished, Harry had leapt up and started gathering the dishes.

 

“Such a polite young man,” Mrs. Hudson praised. “But you cooked breakfast, so I’ll wash up, Harry.”

 

Harry looked a bit distressed, but Mrs. Hudson steamrolled through his objections. “Nonsense, dear. Though if you manage to rub off some of those fine manners onto Sherlock, I’ll treat you to something special,” she told him with a wink.

 

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and remained seated. Harry hovered uncertainly behind the landlady at the sink, before his attention fell on the condiments still present on the table. “I’ll just put these away,” he said with a tinge of relief, heading for the fridge.

 

Sherlock fixed an eye on the boy. _I suppose it’s a beneficial trait that he doesn’t want to remain idle, but this is a little excessive,_ he mused. _He seemed capable of sitting still at the home…perhaps meditation should be implemented sooner than I’d planned?_

His cell phone began ringing from his dressing gown pocket. Sherlock pulled it out with a grimace, hoping it wasn’t Lestrade: he had too many things on to deal with a subpar murder at the moment. The number looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. _Better just answer. You can always hang up._

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he acknowledged.

 

“Hello Mr. Holmes,” came a pleasant, smooth voice. “This is Lacey Williams, Harry’s social worker. I wanted to call and see how the first night went. Is now a good time to chat?”

 

_Ah. Jumping through hoops again,_ he snorted mentally.

_Remember, be_ polite _!_ John warned him.

 

Sherlock sneered and answered in his most cheery voice,“It’s fine, we just finished breakfast.”

 

“How were things after I left last night?”

 

“Fine,” he repeated. A mental prod had him continuing shortly, “My landlady came home, and we all had dinner together. He went to bed. No problems.”

 

Harry had turned back to peer over his shoulder after hearing the last line, curiosity written all over his face. Sherlock met his glance steadily and quirked an eyebrow. _Openly eavesdropping now?_  

 

A faint rustling noise came through the phone, the sound of papers being shifted. “Ah, that’s the ‘Mrs. Hudson’ we have on file, correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’m glad to hear things went well. What’s on the schedule for today?” she inquired politely.

_Inducting him into my cult via ritualistic sacrifice of a house pet,_ he snarked to John. “I thought we’d take the day to pick up some things for Harry, probably bring him to a favored lunch spot.”

 

“Excellent. I’d like to talk to Harry for a bit, but can we arrange a meeting for sometime on Monday morning? I’ll come to Baker Street, around ten?”

 

“That would be acceptable,” Sherlock agreed, before holding out the phone. “Harry, Miss Williams would like to speak with you.”

 

Harry shut the refrigerator door and padded over to take the mobile before stepping a meter away to avoid talking in Sherlock’s ear. “Hello?”

 

Sherlock couldn’t hear Miss Williams’ side of the conversation, but caught the gist from Harry’s responses. _Probably wants to know if he feels comfortable, if he slept okay, if he’s having second thoughts, etc._ Sherlock was oddly anxious about Harry’s answers considering how dismissive he was of his own (and how sure he was the boy was happy), but Mrs. Hudson had finished the dishes and come over to take him to task over breakfast.

 

“I was bringing up your morning tea and found him staring into your kitchen cabinets with despair,” she disclosed softly. Her eyes crinkled up then. “Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a little boy look more like an English housewife! He heard me coming in and almost started ranting, wondering if all you ever ate was crackers and rice – I guess John must have stashed them in a cabinet somewhere, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.”

 

Sherlock was befuddled, having a hard time picturing his ward ranting over anything, much less the state of his cabinets. _But after the egg situation, perhaps that’s not so surprising. Seems like he was responsible for meals at his aunt’s, and I bet the group home welcomed some willing assistance in the kitchen._ A pause, and then, _Interesting that he still sees it as his responsibility though,_ he ruminated. _I suppose this lends credence to the strongly nurturing personality trait_.

 

“Anyways, I told him he was welcome to anything I had in my pantry, but he insisted on paying me back for the eggs and cheese – said he’d work chores ‘round the flat for me, I just had to let him know what I wanted done; I snuck up the toast after he came back upstairs.”

 

She smiled at the detective, but it fell a little flat. “He’s so unassuming, so eager to help. It’s darling, but I don’t remember that being normal for little boys, Sherlock,” she said quietly.

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit, unsure what to tell her. He finally settled for: “Harry is quite unique, but don’t worry after him too much – I believe there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

 

She favored him with an appraising glance, before shaking her head fondly. “I’ll leave you boys to it; I’ll be back around tea time. Don’t,” she admonished sternly, “forget to feed him lunch. There’s cold cuts in your fridge and a loaf in the bread box – on second thought, I’ll leave a note for Harry, just in case.”

 

A hint of a smile came to Sherlock’s face at his landlady’s predictability. He nodded his assent and relocated to his armchair, tea in hand and the morning paper clamped to his side.

 

A light tread on the stairs told him Mrs. Hudson had finally taken her leave; he poked his head up from the paper to check on his charge, who appeared to be wrapping up the phone call. A few seconds later and the boy was at the elbow of Sherlock’s chair, offering him the mobile back.

 

Sherlock returned the phone to the pocket of his dressing gown and began folding the paper, placing it on the side table under his teacup. He gestured to the red chair across from him, “Have a seat.”

 

The boy clambered up and draped his arms across those of the chair; Sherlock was amused to see his hands didn’t even make it three-quarters of the way. The solemn demeanor, in conjunction with the ill-fitting glasses perched on the end of the boy’s nose, made for quite the combination – if Sherlock were a lesser man, he probably would have cracked a grin by now. Instead, he simply leveled an assessing gaze at the boy, oddly curious to see how long it would take him to begin squirming.

 

Harry lasted a little over thirty seconds before his eyes were darting between Sherlock’s face and different points around the room; Sherlock’s faint smile grew even more pronounced. _It’s better than a few weeks ago. Progress is progress, I suppose,_ he thought wryly, _no matter how small._

“I’d like to discuss with you,” Sherlock began at last, “the matter of your education while you’re here.”

 

The boy relaxed perceptibly, to which Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “I mentioned, when we began this process, that there were things I’d like to teach you; you were amenable at the time. Do you still find yourself in the same state of mind?”

 

“The observation thing?”

 

“Yes, among other skills.”

 

“You only asked me yesterday,” Harry said, somewhat incredulous.

 

“Do you still find yourself in the same state of mind?” Sherlock repeated.

 

The boy spoke slowly, brow furrowed, clearly trying to make Sherlock understand. “I know that a lot of kids at the home would have jumped at the chance to have a family again; some of the kids still keep their stuff all in one place, just in case someone wants to adopt them – they don't want to give the parents time to change their minds,” he said with a sad smile.

 

“But for me,” he continued, “the home was already such a better place than where I was before, that I didn’t ever think _anything_ would be better. I was happy there. And then our game started – and it was a lot of fun, more than just helping the younger kids with their crafts.”

 

A beat, and he went on. “I thought a lot about this before you even said you wanted to adopt me.” He flushed, averting his eyes; but then he overcame the self-consciousness and looked at Sherlock with a clear green gaze. “So when I say that this is where I want to be, and I want to learn what you have to teach, I mean it,” he finished simply.

 

Sherlock reflected on that speech in silence, and cleared his throat. “Well, then. I think we’ll start you on Latin. The romance languages will have a basis for later in life, and English is a good enough starting point for German,” he asserted, before flitting on to the next topic. “That leaves languages with non-phonemic orthographies; Mandarin would probably be the most useful, judging from the way the world is going, but you’ve already shown a predisposition for Arabic, so I suppose that choice will be up to you.”

 

Sherlock fixed an expectant glance at the boy, hoping that by rambling on about his plans he might have been fully absconded from actually responding to Harry’s revelations. Harry just looked overwhelmed, eyes huge in his face, confusion shining through, and Sherlock mentally gave himself a pat on the back – _potential crisis averted._

 

“Questions?” he prompted next.

 

“Er, what are the ‘romance languages?’” Harry asked, still dazed. “And non-whatsit ortho- orthogr- orthag–“

 

“Orthographies,” Sherlock cut in, relieving the boy as much for his own sake – it truly grated on him to hear the English language decimated so – “meaning writing systems. ‘Non-phonemic’ means words that are not written as they sound; English is a phonemic language – when you were learning to read, you probably sounded out words by speaking their individual letters, yes? Have you ever seen Chinese characters before? They look something like this,” he said, pulling out a pen to draw on the paper he’d left on the side table. A few short strokes later and he passed it over to the boy.

 

“This is the character 我, ‘wŏ,’ which means ‘I.’ Nothing about the lines of the character suggest that pronunciation to you, which is why this is a ‘non-phonemic’ language. Mandarin uses Chinese characters to represent words. Many of them are based off of images ancient peoples would use to symbolize that object or concept.”

  
The boy seemed to be following, or at least no longer had the bewildered look. Sherlock thought he might even see the light of comprehension, so he went on. “Romance languages,” he continued, “are those initially based off of Latin root words – while they may be spelled and conjugated differently, you’ll find that many words in these languages are very similar.

 

“For future reference,” Sherlock said, getting up to stride over to the bookcase. He selected a thick, leather-bound book off the top shelf, presenting it to the boy, “this is a dictionary. Feel free to use it whenever you don't understand something. There are some helpful notes in the margins I’ve added over the years.”

 

The boy took the book and ran a hand over the gold-embossed lettering on the cover, fingers tracing the dips and curves of the large cursive D. “Learning a new language sounds like a lot of fun,” he finally declared. “What else are you going to teach me?”

 

Sherlock let a pleased smile slip out at that, and checked his watch. It read ten to eleven. _Excellent._ “I’m going to go get dressed, and then we’re going to visit a friend’s restaurant.”

 

Harry blinked up at him, surprised. “I thought you didn’t eat very much usually. Are you already hungry? I can make more food,” he offered.

 

Sherlock stood and waved his hand at the boy, already heading for his room. “No, no, we’re not going for the food – it’s for your first lesson,” he called over his shoulder.


	10. Learning the Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry starts his lessons, and a phone call causes problems.

Sherlock abandoned the boy in the parlor for the five minutes it took to change into more suitable attire, something like anticipation building in his stomach. This would be the first lesson, the first real opportunity to gauge the boy directly… and he had a theory he wanted proven. He returned to find Harry still sitting bewildered on John’s chair, his face a mix of confusion and helplessness.

 

_Oh, I remember that feeling,_ John commiserated wearily.

 

Sherlock quirked a mental eyebrow as he straightened the cuff of his shirtsleeve, curious despite himself.

 

Mental-John sighed and took pity on him. _He’s just realized he’s in a bit over his head, is all. He’ll get used to it,_ he assured the detective.

The detective sniffed and ignored the construct, turning to the seated boy instead.

 

“Well, come along then,” he said, a bit perplexed over why the boy hadn’t moved yet. _Didn’t I say we were going to Angelo’s?_

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Er–” _there was something I’m supposed to ask now, wasn’t there?_ _Something Mummy always pestered me about, one of the first things I learned to tune out…_ dim memories, long abandoned to the back of his mind, obligingly came forward, “–have you got a jumper? Do you require the facilities?”

 

The boy had hopped to his feet at Sherlock’s first words; a nod and a shake answered the two questions respectively. Sherlock peered down inquiringly to confirm that the boy still had on the shoes he’d been wearing all morning. The detective gave a short nod then, feeling rather on top of this whole guardian thing, before marching towards the stairs. Scrambling footsteps told him the boy was following.

 

He paused briefly at the foot of the stairs to let the boy precede him out the front door, turning to lock it behind them. Immediately he was off again, long strides eating up the pavement as Harry scurried after, finally settling into a half-jog to keep up.

 

_You could slow down_ , John told the detective, annoyance creeping into his tone.

 

_It’ll be good for his endurance; he’s below his age class’s average weight and height requirements, and it’s likely due to malnutrition. Mrs. Hudson’s cooking – or his own, for that matter,_ Sherlock thought sardonically – _should take care of the growth problem, but it’s best to build up stamina early._

 

“Sherlock,” the boy panted haltingly, curiosity finally overruling his silent nature, “what am I going to learn at a restaurant if we’re not going to eat there? Can we even go in if we’re not eating?” he asked wonderingly. “I’ve not really been to many, but I was pretty sure that's a rule somewhere.”

 

Sherlock could hear the dubiousness in his voice without looking down at his charge, and waved a hand in his general direction. “It won’t be a problem; I assisted the owner some years back, so I’ve got a standing reservation there.”

 

“Oh,” the boy replied. Concerns settled, he took to craning his head from side to side, trying to get his first good look around Baker Street. Sherlock approved of this behavior, so he went out of his way to nudge the boy around a particularly vicious crack in the pavement.

 

A few blocks down, Sherlock directed them to cross the road and take a left; they spilled out onto a higher trafficked street, boasting more cafés and restaurants than Baker Street owned. It wasn’t long before they fell behind a slow moving herd of pedestrians; Sherlock picked out a handful of construction workers on an early lunch break, a journalist, a few retired old men, some nurses, and several American corporate-types on some sort of working holiday. The chatter was inane, mostly exclaiming over work or family life. Sherlock kept his ears perked for anything interesting, but truthfully let most of it filter out in favor of addressing his charge.

 

“I advise you to make note of the street signs: it’s always useful to know where one is,” Sherlock asserted. “We’ll make rounds of the surrounding neighborhoods in the future to orient you better, but a good sense of direction will serve you well.”  

 

The boy nodded seriously, eyes already pinning down the nearest cross streets. This earned a few indulgent smiles from the nurses as they took a right; _must be headed to the Welbeck Hospital then_ , Sherlock marked absently.

 

The detective was beginning to chafe at the slow pace, but the walkway had narrowed due to London’s ever-present construction. The boy and he still walked comfortably abreast – _small, he’s so small –_ but the rest of the traffic had fallen into single file, raising their voices to continue conversations.

 

“What was that, Bart? I can’t hear you in my bad ear,” the old man at the front said, twisting back to face his friend. He stopped every few steps to respond, turning the whole line into some sort of bizarre inch worm, pausing and bunching all over the place. Not a few of the group ended up running into each other due to the erratic pace; the Americans got annoyed and stepped off the curb to go around. Sherlock was tempted himself, but Angelo’s was just beyond the construction – he’d only have to wait longer for the whole procession to pass.

 

Sherlock couldn’t suppress a sigh of irritation when he saw the two retirees turning off into Angelo’s as well, one of them painstakingly holding the door open for the other.

 

_This is karmic retribution for getting so unapologetically gleeful over new murders,_ John informed him, tickled.

 

_Karma,_ Sherlock lectured snippily in response, _is an Eastern construction to encourage good behavior, often associated with actions in one’s so-called past life; it’s certainly not responsible for inflicting me with impatience_. _Though,_ he thought privately, _if I believed in that sort of thing, a past life heavy with misdeeds might explain why I was saddled with Mycroft._

 

Harry was clearly caught off guard by Sherlock’s immediate halt, because he trailed off for a few more steps before realizing the detective’s shadow hadn’t followed him. He turned to look questioningly at the tall man, attention sharpening when he realized they’d reached their destination.

 

Sherlock flapped an abrupt hand at the boy to follow the men into the restaurant, earning a considering look from the child before he crossed through the threshold. The detective pushed past the dawdling duo, ignoring the hostess stand completely to direct Harry to the front table by the window, where he’d sat with John all those years ago. The boy slid into the booth obediently, watching the old men still conversing with interest.

 

Sherlock’s cursory look about the room noted that little had changed in the restaurant since he’d been here last, sometime before the mess with Moriarty. The same small tables dotted the space, meant for intimate conversation – _looks as if Angelo had the booths reupholstered in a light blue_. Wooden slat screens still provided some modicum of privacy between guests at regular intervals, although other diners were clearly visible in the divide between boards. Despite the bright July sunlight creeping in the front window, the rest of the room was bathed with a dim gleam reminiscent of candlelight; Sherlock assumed the effect was achieved with some sort of filtered bulbs and left it at that.

 

One of the waiters had obviously noted their presence and gone to retrieve Angelo, because it wasn’t a full minute (in which Harry turned to peruse the menu curiously while Sherlock did the same with the clientele) until the large man bustled out of the depths of the restaurant to appear at the edge of their table, round face awash with an open happiness.

 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” he exclaimed cheerily, “it has been quite awhile! I’m so glad to see you, so very glad indeed – I told everyone you’d be back at my table someday, and here you are!”   


Sherlock nodded in greeting, throwing in a slight smile for good measure. There were perhaps a few more threads of silver in the older man’s hair and beard, an extra line around his mouth, but beyond that as little seemed to have changed with Angelo as with his restaurant. _Still rather easy to predict, too,_ Sherlock thought as he watched the large man’s attention fall on his charge, already anticipating the inevitable question.

  
“And who is this?” Angelo asked, voice light and chipper.

 

“Angelo,” Sherlock introduced, “this is my ward, Harry. Harry, Angelo, the owner of this establishment.”

 

Angelo’s eyes crinkled up in the kind way that had told Sherlock when they first met that this man was not a killer, to which the boy tentatively offered one of his own rare smiles.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, young Harry,” the owner greeted with a bob of his head.

 

“You as well, sir,” Harry replied in a soft voice. Sherlock read a relaxed comfort in the slope of the boy’s shoulders, and was pleased. _Either he’s made his own assessment and determined Angelo’s worth, or he trusts my judgment of the man._   

 

“What will it be, gentlemen? On the house, of course,” Angelo inquired, an effortless transition testifying to years in the food industry. Angelo was not one for manners much outside of his restaurant, as Sherlock well recalled, but within his domain his customers were treated well; it made for many happy regulars.

 

“I think we’ll hold off on lunch for a bit; perhaps something to drink though?” Sherlock interjected, looking towards Harry.

 

Taking his cue, the boy asked, “Could I have some apple juice?”

 

“Water will be fine for me,” Sherlock followed.

 

Angelo gave a brisk nod and lumbered towards the kitchen; their drinks were brought out in short order by one of the waiters, and then they were left alone. It was one of the many reasons Sherlock appreciated his relationship with the former housebreaker so much – despite appearances, Angelo knew how to read a situation (and keep his lips closed on a matter, besides).

 

Sherlock could see a quiet building of questions in his young charge, so he was not surprised when the silence was broken shortly thereafter.

 

The boy fiddled with the paper wrapper his straw had come in, tugging it this way and that, before asking conversationally, “Were you on holiday for a long while, then?” He peered up at Sherlock at the tail end of his question, a half glance through long eyelashes.

 

“Of a sort, I suppose,” Sherlock offered. He had, in fact, considered this carefully in the last several weeks, the story of his two-year “death” and tarnished reputation. At first he’d thought it might prove an impediment to the adoption process, but the home workers had cared little (whether this was due to Mycroft’s influence or just a natural disinclination for the media, Sherlock knew not). He’d realized setting out in his search that the child in question would probably have been too young to know much about the event, but there was always a chance he might have heard a snippet or two.

 

Harry had shown no signs of it, so Sherlock had simply decided that it may or may not become relevant later and left it at that; _John would probably have approached this directly, laid the whole of it on the table to put an end to any rumors (even if the boy had not yet heard them),_ Sherlock mused, remembering how offended his friend had been on the detective’s behalf.

 

_But this will serve as a lesson that you never know everything about a person from a first impression. Harry should make up his own mind on this, and I’m interested to see how he goes about fishing for information – call it a soft form of interrogation practice._

 

At Sherlock’s answer, the boy had ceased fidgeting and looked at the detective directly. “Were you ill?” Harry asked, hints of concern starting to show.

 

“No,” Sherlock replied, a corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

 

Harry sat back against his seat, shoulders straightening. A considering look next. “In prison, then?”

 

“Not quite,” Sherlock temporized, a full on grin starting at the revelation that the boy did not find him above suspicion. He relented then, realizing Harry would never theorize it out properly from what little information he had to work with. “I faked my own death to give myself leave to hunt down and dismantle the web of an international criminal mastermind,” he informed the boy casually. “It took two years, though I did spend some of that time in an underground Serbian interrogation cell, so I suppose you could say I was in prison,” he mused with a blithe air.  

 

The boy had lost the considering look to stare at him a bit, brows furrowed. He cleared his throat and asked in a level tone, “Are you having me on?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said steadily, meeting him eye for eye.

 

A pause. “Okay then,” Harry nodded, taking a sip of his juice.

 

Satisfied the matter was settled, Sherlock switched gears to begin the lesson he’d brought the boy here for in the first place.

 

“Now, Harry, look out the window. What do you see?”

 

Obviously a bit confused at the non sequitur, though perhaps beginning to get used to it, Harry obligingly twisted to squint out the paned glass at the busy scene outside.  

 

“Well, the buildings across the way have apartments above them, like back at Baker Street – it looks like there are numbers on the doors,” he said haltingly, trying to pick out what answer Sherlock wanted. “Traffic’s been bunched up by all the construction we passed?”

 

Sherlock made a noise of agreement and asked, “Good, what else?”

 

“There are a lot of people going by, a lot of families with kids,” he added, beginning to pick up steam. “It’s a nice day out, more sun than we’ve had in a while – maybe they’re all headed to a park?”

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock acknowledged. “Narrow your focus a little; what about those three, there?” The detective dipped his head at a woman with a pram, tot inside, and what looked to be a four-year-old girl hopping beside her. _They’re coming directly into Harry’s line of sight and moving slowly, that should give him plenty of time._

  
Unsurprisingly, Harry began to describe the girl first, perhaps latching onto the familiar.

 

“The little girl is in a dress, pink with a big bow. She’s got those shiny black shoes on, the ones that are real slippery? Her hair’s long and blonde. She looks younger than me by a few years, shorter, too. She’s… bouncy. Um,” he paused, running out of things to say. He switched to the woman next, assuming Sherlock wanted him to continue. “Their mom is pretty, maybe around Miss Rachel’s age? She has short brown hair. She’s dressed nice too, and has a big handbag. She’s pushing a pram; I think the baby’s probably a boy, from the blue blanket he’s all wrapped in,” he finished, turning to look back at Sherlock with an expectant gaze.

 

“And what might you infer from that?” Sherlock asked next, adding, “Similar to when we played our game, what can you tell about them?” when it became apparent the boy was stumped by the word ‘infer.’

 

“I guess… they’re probably going somewhere nice, if they’re all dressed up like that,” Harry said slowly. “And most of the other families are walking the other way, so… not to the park? And… the little girl likes pink?” he guessed, nonplussed.

 

Sherlock gave him a wry look at that. “You are correct,” he began, “in that they are headed away from a park and towards a nicer location – lunch at home, to be exact,” he informed the boy. “See the grass stains on the girl’s knee? The way one of her socks has slipped down, probably from running? And there’s a book visible in the woman’s bag – probably something she was reading on a bench while the girl played.

 

“But that is not their mother: her coloring is completely different, and probably not dyed either – see how her eyebrows match. The makeup, high end clothes, and shorter hair cut make her appear older than she is; I’d say,” he cast an approximating glance at the woman in question, humming absently, “probably three to five years younger than your Miss Rachel.

 

“The children belong to a well-off family,” he continued, “you can tell from the high quality of their clothing, the pram, and the baby bag – that large handbag you mentioned earlier,” Sherlock said with a nod in the boy’s favor. “It’s designed to appear more fashionable than traditional bags of the same nature. The woman is most likely their nanny, supported by the fact that they’re on an outing during the weekday and the lack of a wedding ring,” he pointed to her left hand on the pram bar.

 

“You can see too, that the little girl adores her,” Sherlock added, “look at the way she keeps reaching for the woman’s hand even though she’s trying to push the pram; the child’s too energetic – bouncy, as you said – and happy to be repressed or seeking comfort. That’s an action of reverence for where she gets the most attention. Statistically speaking, she’s probably neglected by her actual parents at this stage – typical of high end families,” he said matter-of-factly.  

 

The boy had started out squinting at each of the physical signs Sherlock pointed out, trying to catalogue the observations for himself, but by the end of Sherlock’s litany, he’d ceased in favor of staring at Sherlock, mouth halfway open in awe.

 

“That’s just… wow,” Harry said finally, when it became apparent Sherlock was finished. “And you’re going to teach me how to do all that?”

 

“It’s more a matter of guiding you to see the observations for yourself – all the evidence is there, and with a little base-level knowledge, it’s simple to pull together the pieces. Granted,” Sherlock warned, “the method is not infallible – not always correct – statistics and balance of probability situations indicate what happens more often than not, but there are always outliers – different events. For instance, that woman: perhaps she really is about to become the children’s beloved step mother and wears her engagement ring on a necklace inside her shirt for some silly reason,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “But it’s statistically less likely.” 

 

_That was almost humble,_ John said from the back of his mind.

 

_Shut up, it’s important he knows the flaws – he’s not had much exposure to the concepts of probability and hypotheticals yet, for all that he’s demonstrated more cognitive development than most his age. He did well to use familiar points of reference for comparison purposes, though – himself, and that Rachel woman. I have to get him started with some logic problems soon…_

 

“Now, try again, but this time with the guests in here,” Sherlock said, eager to test out a little experiment he’d had in the wings.

 

Harry cast him a dubious look, but dutifully turned to scan their fellow diners. “Well, the old men we followed in here are Bart and Gary; Gary has bad hearing in his left ear, said his hearing aid has been on the fritz for a while.”

 

“I think they come here pretty regularly, ‘cause Angelo stopped to say hi to them after he spoke to us. And they’re close family friends or cousins or something – Bart’s started every other sentence with ‘Remember that time,’ and he keeps saying how pretty Gary’s mom was. So I guess that means she passed away?” he speculated, a sadness coming into his eyes briefly.

 

“Gary’s either really bad with tools or really bad in the kitchen,” Harry continued, “he said something about his garbage disposal breaking for the fifth time and having to fix it, which means he’s doing it wrong a whole bunch or he’s putting things down there that he should be binning,” he told Sherlock. “Aunt Petunia used to shriek at me over potato peels, so I learned pretty quick.” A sober look passed over his face at the memory, but, as children are wont to do, he forgot it just as quickly in favor of his last bit of information.

 

“Oh, and I think Bart’s a smoker – I smelled it on him when we walked by,” Harry added with a wrinkled nose.

 

Sherlock thought rapidly back to their entrance, surprised he’d missed that detail in particular – but maybe, _it was just a hint of nicotine; I think I blocked it out –_

 

“You were busy being annoyed, I think,” the boy said, apparently having read some of the consternation on Sherlock’s face. The detective quirked an eyebrow and gave him the point, silently admonishing his own lack of attention. __  
  


_So he_ can _make inferences then, given enough information,_ Sherlock thought. _I assumed as much from our game, but it is nice to have it proven again. And it looks as if my experiment paid off here._

“And how do you know that Gary’s the one responsible for the clogged disposal? It could be his wife.”

 

Harry shook his head, “I don’t think he’s got one; I can’t see his hands from here, but Bart’s complained about his three times already, and Gary hasn’t joined in.”

 

Sherlock felt a wry smile twisting his lips. _Relatively familiar with human nature, then._ “When, may I ask, did you learn all of this?” he inquired.

 

“Well, the hearing problem was pretty obvious when we were walking over here,” Harry said frankly. “Bart’s been remembering and nattering about the wife the whole time, but Gary just mentioned the disposal a few minutes ago.”

“And the other diners?”

 

“The couple in the corner,” Harry flicked his eyes towards the kitchens, “are in the middle of a domestic ‘cause the husband doesn’t like how his fish was cooked and the woman said he’s ‘being ridiculous.’ The family a few tables over were talking about going to a picture later this afternoon, something with a superhero in it?”

 

Sherlock obligingly followed Harry’s lead, confirming his claims in the detective’s usual method – _there’s certainly enough tension in that corner to reflect a domestic, probably one of many recent fights. The woman’s developed an eyebrow twitch. Divorce in three months,_ he wrote off. At the family’s table, a boy around Harry’s age was holding his napkin about himself like a cape; it was no large leap in logic to the film Harry had mentioned. 

“Very good, Harry,” Sherlock said finally, folding his hands together to rest his chin on them as he looked at his charge. “I don’t believe you realize it, but you have incredible auditory senses – you hear very well,” he clarified. “Possibly olfactory as well – your sense of smell. I’ve suspected as much with regards to your hearing ever since our game, especially since your eyesight appears somewhat poor; do you often have difficulty seeing or reading signs?”

 

Harry crinkled his nose in thought. “I had a hard time with the details you pointed out about the nanny and kids earlier, but it got easier after a bit. Same with letters, I suppose.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. _Perhaps he means after he squinted at them? That’s supposed to put a terrible strain on the eyes, though I suppose it won’t matter for much longer – I’ll get Mrs. Hudson to take him to an optometrist soon. He must be nearsighted though; he peered into my face several times when he ‘caught me’ during our game, and he obviously has no problem reading facial cues, judging from how tense he was with Mrs. Hudson last night. Or perhaps it’s body language…?_

“This lesson served double as a little experiment of mine; you’ve got a high ability for auditory recall – I suspect you’ll always be able to remember better the things you’re told than the things you see, so we’ll have to concentrate on building up your visual recall. First though, you’ll need a new pair of glasses.”

 

Harry was beginning to look overwhelmed again, and ran a nervous hand through his hair; it parted just enough that Sherlock was able to catch a glimpse of something darker than the expected pale skin tone. _Yes, I had meant to ask him about that._

 

“Birthmark or scar?” Sherlock inquired, eyes narrowed on his charge’s forehead.

 

“Er-” the boy stuttered, caught off guard. He followed Sherlock’s gaze up to where his hand was still rubbing his temple. “Scar,” he said softly, eyes dropping to the table as his hand lifted up his fringe to expose a zigzag of healed flesh.

 

_Unusual shape,_ Sherlock noted absently, a bit perplexed by the melancholy mood suddenly overtaking the boy. He thought about leaving it there, but he wanted to know, “How did you get it?”

 

The boy turned to look out the window, scowling something fierce. “In the car crash that killed my parents,” he admitted bitterly. “My dad was a _drunk,”_ he said, disdain for the word and all that it implied blatantly evident.

 

Sherlock calculated; _the car crash fits in with the report from the home, but I hadn’t realized Harry was in the car at the time… I’ll have to get John to perform an MRI to ensure there wasn’t any lasting damage; it’s nearly six years old, and the scar looks rather superficial, but still…_

“I rarely imbibe alcohol,” he said finally, unsure whether he intended to reassure the boy or bring him back from his gloomy thoughts, but feeling the need to say _something._ “Though I should tell you I once had a drug habit and occasionally crave cigarettes.”

 

The boy blinked up at Sherlock, clearly at a loss with how to deal with that information.

 

“Mrs. Hudson will probably enlist you to help search the flat periodically,” Sherlock added. “Try not to mess up my sock index, John was always horrible at that.”

 

Harry couldn't help but let out a grin at that. “I’ll try my best,” he promised earnestly. 

* * *

 

They whiled away the lunch hours training up Harry’s observation skills, each player picking out a passerby and informing the other about them; Sherlock’s turns were always far more comprehensive, of course, but the boy was beginning to make some astute deductions himself. (And if he chose to pick on a middle-aged woman walking by with a Pomeranian instead of the familiar, shining black car inching down the street in front of them, well, the boy didn’t know enough to know the difference. Yet.)

 

Sherlock eventually badgered the boy into ordering some lunch, citing Mrs. Hudson’s wrath as a motivating factor. He earned a stern glance at his own lack of appetite, but ignored it with the ease of years of stubbornness and a handy distraction: his next ‘impossible’ deduction – something about being able to tell the young man walking by owned a talking cockatoo from the cut of his shirt sleeves.

 

The two wandered off towards Baker Street in the early afternoon, with promises to return soon enough. Sherlock had calculated that Mrs. Hudson would be home in another hour to take the boy out shopping, so they ensconced themselves in the den to do some reading – Harry had perused Sherlock’s shelves to pull out a copy of _Oliver Twist_. It wasn’t long until the boy nodded off on the couch, glasses slipping down his face.

 

“Fed him _and_ got him to take a nap,” Mrs. Hudson quipped in a quiet tone when she returned to find the boy asleep. “Why, Sherlock, I think we’ll make a father out of you yet!”

 

Sherlock blanched at that word and clarified over Mrs. Hudson’s chortling, “ _Guardian,_ Mrs. Hudson, guardian – much like you’re a landlady and not our housekeeper,” he added tartly. “Now, I’ve got to make an appointment at the optometrist for him tomorrow. Can you take him in the afternoon again?”

 

Still chuckling at the look on Sherlock’s face, Mrs. Hudson nodded and went to gather her things. Sherlock pressed a card into her hand to cover the expenses and woke the boy, a firm hand gentle on a small shoulder.

 

“Mrs. Hudson’s come to take you to get some new things,” he told the yawning boy. “Pick out some comfortable clothes, but get at least two nice things – you’ll need them eventually.”

 

A sleepy nod told the detective his instructions had been heard, so he left them to it and retreated to pick through his box of contacts – he recalled at least one acquaintance that was also an optometrist.

* * *

 

And so passed the weekend. Sherlock was woken every morning by the smell of something new being produced in his kitchen; it was different each day – Mrs. Hudson had evidently taken the boy to the market after clothes shopping at Harry’s request. He arrived to a table laden with food, a cup of tea made to his exact specifications waiting in front of his customary seat next to the morning paper. The boy would surreptitiously watch Sherlock like a hawk from across the table, until the detective felt obligated to take more than a few bites. Mrs. Hudson joined them on Friday morning, but left them to it after that, explaining that she wanted “to give you two time to settle in together.”

The hours after breakfast were usually spent beginning to work on Latin, Sherlock leading the boy through the basic pronunciations of pronouns and more familiar words. Harry had a primer he worked through as well, a double attempt to better his “rather atrocious handwriting.” 

 

Afternoons were devoted to outings; Friday’s was, of course, to the optometrist Sherlock had contacted.

 

(“-it was fantastic, really – he fiddled with some of the lenses and all of a sudden I could see, without having to wait for it like usual! The letters were just there, so clear and crisp-” the boy exclaimed, excitement bubbling over as he twisted his head from side to side, grin wide on his face.

 

_‘Wait for it like usual?’ The squinting…?)_

 

Saturday and Sunday, Sherlock took the boy out to different parts of London like he’d promised, trying to give him a basic map of the city. He continued to educate the boy on his observation skills, made easier by the boy’s newfound ability to see details. Harry seemed to enjoy it, exuding a spirited quality when Sherlock expounded on the lives of the people surrounding them.

 

The three residents of 221 Baker Street ate dinner together all three nights, cooked in the landlady’s flat by Mrs. Hudson and her newest assistant. Conversation flowed easily despite quiet natures. The boy was always happy to tell the landlady how they had spent their day and what all he had learned, often in exchange for some stories about Sherlock. The detective would cut in affably with clarifications whenever Mrs. Hudson got a detail wrong, but allowed her the little embellishments – she was a rather good storyteller.

 

In the evenings the duo settled down with some reading, or Harry worked on some of the logic problems in the puzzle book Sherlock had bought for him; they seemed overly simplistic to the detective, but the store clerk had assured Sherlock that they “would form a good beginning, and be fun besides.”

 

Harry usually took himself off to bed when he felt tired, often before nine, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

 

It was a quiet routine for now, but the flat was no longer silent.

* * *

  

So when Monday morning rolled around, Sherlock had almost forgotten about the guest they were expecting, until the boy haltingly asked him if “maybe he wanted to change out of his dressing gown” a little after nine forty.

 

Sherlock stared blankly at Harry for a second, absently appreciating how much better the new glasses frames appeared (though, of course, he’d had the boy hold on to the old frames just in case a situation presented itself). “Oh, that woman’s coming today, isn’t she?” he realized belatedly.  

 

“Miss Williams,” the boy proffered.

 

Sherlock shot him a dry look and rose. “Why don’t you go put the kettle back on, while I get dressed? Mrs. Hudson left some biscuits in the bread box yesterday,” he remarked, leaving to get changed.

 

_Just as well I never made it to Bart’s on Thursday,_ Sherlock thought to himself as he tugged on one of his casual suits, _or we’d have a few experiments running on the counters by now._

_Might be a little much for a first real visit,_ John agreed.

 

He emerged from the depths of his room just as he heard Mrs. Hudson opening the downstairs door to admit their guest. A quick glance told him the boy had finished cleaning up from breakfast and put the kettle on – _so efficient_ – tea things already laid out for four. _Figures he’d realize Mrs. Hudson would want to be up here for this._

 

Indeed, the steady tromp up the stairs brought both the landlady and the expected Miss Williams. Sherlock turned to face the women, Harry sidling up beside him.

 

“Sherlock, is your doorbell still out? I thought we’d had that taken care of a few months ago,” Mrs. Hudson asked, face perplexed.

 

“Mmm, I seemed to have misplaced its batteries. My apologies, Miss Williams, I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

 

“Not at all,” the woman demurred, splitting a smile for the boy. “Hello, Harry. How are you?”

 

The boy smiled shyly back at her. “I’m quite well, Miss Williams, how are you?”

 

The pleasantries were continued for a few more minutes, Mrs. Hudson introducing herself before taking charge of the tea service. Harry led them all into the den, claiming one of what Sherlock and John had dubbed the “client” chairs. Miss Williams followed suit, leaving John’s chair for Mrs. Hudson.

 

“Well, Harry, how was this weekend?” Miss Williams finally began in a cheery tone, twisting to peer into his face.

 

The boy broke into a smile, eyes lighting up. “It was excellent! Sherlock took me to lunch, and Mrs. Hudson’s been letting me help her in the kitchen, and Sherlock’s teaching me Latin-”

 

Sherlock used the time Harry prattled on to gauge Miss Williams, affixing a pleasantly interested expression to his own face: _body language tilted completely towards the boy, she hasn’t looked away from him since he began regaling her with his story – I’m willing to be she’s had quite a lot of practice pretending interest, but I suppose she’s actually listening; she’ll come up with a few questions for me next, maybe ask Mrs. Hudson about the shopping trip or dinners. How dull._

“-well, I’d certainly love to try one of your culinary delights sometime,” the social worker told the boy, eyes creased in a smile.

 

The boy nodded, offering up, “Maybe you can come over for dinner sometime?” He looked to Sherlock, the question plain.

 

Sherlock affirmed, “I’m certain we could work something out.”

 

Sensing a lull in the conversation, Miss Williams broke in again with, “I meant to tell you earlier, I like your new glasses, Harry. Did you choose them yourself?”

 

The boy brought his hands up to touch the frames, fingers running over the edges in a motion that had been constant over the last few days. “I did,” he said, pleased. “Though Mrs. Hudson helped,” he added.

 

“And they suit your face marvelously, dear. Brings out those lovely eyes of yours,” the landlady declared.

 

“On that subject,” Sherlock began, turning to the social worker. “Harry’s prescription was quite out of date; did he not receive a check up at St. James’?”

 

Miss Williams frowned. “All our children receive a very thorough physical when they first arrive; Harry, do you remember meeting with Dr. Rodgers?”

 

“Um,” the boy piped up, “he did the height and weight measurements, but then a phone call came for him, so he asked me if I could read a sign and then told me I was done.”

 

The frown deepened. “I’ll look into it,” she assured Sherlock.

 

Satisfied, Sherlock let himself fade from the conversation again; Mrs. Hudson prompted Harry to practice some of his Latin on Miss Williams, and the boy was off. The exchange continued on for some twenty minutes until Miss Williams was satisfied and Harry was all chattered out. She left, after informing Sherlock that she’d call again later in the week to schedule her next visit, and they got on with their day.

 

_Well, that’s one visit down, at least._

* * *

 

Some would say the life of a soldier left one paranoid.

 

John would cock one eyebrow and wrinkle his nose in distaste at these people. He much preferred to say he had simply had a few habits trained into him, some favorable – he certainly kept a neater room now – and some…less so. Sherlock’s two-year disappearing act hadn’t helped matters.

 

Mary was an unflinchingly good sport about the whole thing; she weathered the occasional nightmare with ease, and thought the way he would periodically poke his head out of the office to check on her sweet, rather than overbearing. Their time apart was peppered with little text messages that somehow managed to incorporate her current location and status – things like, “At the market and it’s freezing! We needed milk, right?”

 

A small part of him figured he should be annoyed that she felt the need to cater to him like that, but honestly, it was a relief knowing that half of his life was safe, especially since they’d found out she was pregnant. 

 

So when the phone rang in their small flat early one evening, just as he was starting to get antsy, John figured it was the routine phone call from Mary, subtly letting him know what she was up to – it wasn’t unusual for her to call the landline when her joints were too swollen and achy to punch out a text.

 

“Hello?” he greeted warmly, anticipation a pleasant feeling in his stomach – it amazed him how thrilled he was to hear from Mary still, even two months after the wedding. He supposed it was still technically the “honeymoon” period, but a small part of him hoped that feeling never really went away.

 

“Dr. Watson?” came an unexpected voice.

 

John could feel the frown lines starting.

 

“Yes?”

 

“This is Lacey Williams, a social worker associated with the St. James’ group home for children. I’d like to ask you a few questions with regards to your recommendation for Sherlock Holmes as a candidate for child adoption.”  
  
“I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! I give you, John Watson!


	11. Redirected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a great deal of yelling.

“That’ll be thirty-three quid, sir.”

 

“What? Oh, here,” John distractedly handed over a wad of notes, halfway out the cab already. Too angry to be friendly, he pressed his lips together in the semblance of a smile at the driver and shut the door. The slamming noise told him he was rapidly losing the cold control that brought him to Baker Street, and he cursed silently.

 

The cab let him off on the wrong side of the street; John gave the barest of glances in either direction and then made for the door of his old residence with the single-mindedness of a man on a mission. He had no clear, thought-out plans, just the burning need to _find out what the bloody hell was going on_.

 

So it was, of course, completely inconvenient that his path suddenly became blockaded by a familiar car cruising up the pavement, fading sunlight glinting off of that shining black.

 

“Get in, John,” Mycroft’s voice floated through the open back window in the calm, steady tone John had come to loathe. It always made him feel like an unruly child at lessons, when he had long been an adult in his own right.

 

“Oh, no,” the doctor said firmly, the edge of anger bleeding into his words. “You’ll not be protecting him from this,” he warned Mycroft.   
  
John kept right on walking, angling past the rear wheels towards the entryway of 221. The click of a car door opening caused him to pause a step, but he didn’t turn around.

 

“So help me, Mycroft,” he growled lowly, teeth clenched, “if you’re not getting out of that car to join me in reaming your brother a new one– ”

 

“John,” came the quiet interruption.

 

There was something about the way Mycroft said his name, a beseeching note that John hadn’t heard Mycroft use before. Perhaps it was just a next-level manipulation from a master manipulator, but it prompted John to turn on his heel and fix a glare on Mycroft. His mouth opened, ready to tell the taller man just what he thought about interfering older brothers, when he got a good look at the other man’s face: the beseeching tone matched imploring eyes, all set in a bald display of sincerity. It culminated into an unexpected emotional concession from Mycroft, mister-authority-on-inscrutable himself.  

 

Still, the doctor might not have given in, if not for the man’s next words:

 

“John, get in the car, _please._ ”

 

John snapped his teeth together. “Fine,” he bit out tersely. “But I’m expecting answers.”

* * *

Despite John’s stipulation, Mycroft refused to be forthright until they reached their destination. The silence, already stiff, grew more and more strained as the car rolled further from Baker Street, although John was at least gratified to see that they were not heading back towards his new flat. Being intercepted from his original goal was bad enough, but if Mycroft had tried to pluck him from the street and quietly take him home like a child-minder handling a toddler who had wandered too far, John would have lost it.

 

Mycroft was as unruffled as ever; John fidgeted and spent the first few minutes studying the man carefully from the corner of his eye, looking for any inkling of an explanation about earlier. But the enigmatic face was back on, and when it became apparent that not even blatant staring would distract the man from his phone, John went back to seething.

 

John’s anger had always flared hot and bright, but it was a short-lived thing once he was given space to calm down. His frustration with Sherlock over faking his own death had been the longest stint he could ever remember being mad, but that had been a complicated mess of reactions in its own right, and honestly, who could blame him for needing time to work through it all?

 

He’d certainly never held for the dramatics of his sister Harry; she’d latched onto grudges with the strength of a swamp leech throughout their teen years, and wasn’t shy about ranting to all and sundry over the dinner table about who had crossed her unforgivably that day. John was used to being labeled mild-mannered in comparison, but something about the Holmes brothers seemed to dig under his skin like no other.  

 

John was a breath away from trying a third round of questioning when the car began to slow; this would have been otherwise unremarkable if not for the fact that Mycroft finally looked up from his _bleeding_ phone, gaze angling out the window next to John. The doctor felt his eyes following almost automatically, catching sight of what could only be labeled as a ‘manor.’

 

He traced over the great stone gables, thrown in shadowed relief by lamps lining the driveway; _evening’s set in,_ he realized belatedly, taking in the handful of softly lit multi-paned windows. John could just make out the edges of a few old-timey brick chimneys in the fading twilight, and he raised a hand to rub at bleary, uncooperative eyes.

 

The building was clearly well cared for – the tan-grey bricks looked almost pristine, the architecture itself the only sign belying its true age. John briefly entertained the notion that it was a modern construction modeled after an older house and turned to ask Mycroft for his presumably more informed opinion – surely knowledge of old architecture had been meticulously filed away somewhere in that brain – only to see that Mycroft’s door was in the process of being opened by a chest covered in a trim butler’s garb.

 

Several things clicked for the doctor then, and he closed his eyes tightly with a sigh.

 

_Of course,_ John thought, rather resigned. _A Holmes would know the exact moment in which he arrived at his own home._

John was startled out of his revelations by the sound of his own door opening. He looked up into the face attached to the chest he had seen previously, a somewhat severe looking older man with little in the way of expression.

 

“Dr. Watson,” the butler intoned, eyes narrowing a hint when John simply stared up at him. “Perhaps you’d like to remove yourself from the vehicle?”

 

“Ah, right then.” John gave himself a brief shake and fumbled his way out of the car, suddenly almost off-balance.

 

_Mycroft’s butler knows my name,_ John thought in a removed part of his mind. _Did they know we were coming? Or does Mycroft simply have dossiers of all of Sherlock’s ‘acquaintances’ passed out to the staff each month?_

He looked around for the taller man, perhaps hoping for a hint of what to feel, to witness the infuriating brother disappearing into the house. All of a sudden John found his anger again, felt it seep back into his veins. He was tired of dancing to Mycroft’s tune; perhaps it had been too long since he had played this game, but he found himself less tolerant and more than a little peeved. Sherlock was _his_ friend, it was _his_ right to berate the great idiot for coming up with a colossally bad idea and acting on it. _For not telling me about it,_ a very small voice whispered.    

 

Decision made, John set his shoulders and stalked the several meters into the house, ignoring the butler trailing sedately a few steps behind.

 

“May I take your jacket, sir?”

 

“What? No, that won’t be necessary,” John said absentmindedly, unwilling to be deterred yet again.

 

There was a high-handed sounding sniff at his heels, and John irrationally wondered whether the butler had picked it up from the Holmes brothers, or if it had been the other way around. _Or perhaps such people are simply drawn together, so they can collude huffily over the rudeness of the ‘commonwealth.’_

  
The faint “Why I even bother…” that filtered back through the hallway nearly caused John’s mouth to twitch in grim amusement, and he rather hoped he’d offended his shadow enough to proceed alone (though how he then expected to find Mycroft, who had mysteriously disappeared into the depths of the house…).

 

But John’s wishes were dashed when a few strides – _damn all tall men and their stupidly long legs_ – placed the butler in front of him. “This way, sir.”

 

The man seemed inclined to silence, which suited John just fine; he needed time to stew and work back up to the righteous fury he’d relished in earlier if he was going to battle against Mycroft.

 

The snooty butler led John down several halls at a good clip, past tasteful décor themed with warm wooden tones, white marble, and a deep, burnished leather color. Antique pieces were displayed every so often, vases and statues and paintings that John was sure fell somewhere in the realm between ‘stupidly expensive’ and ‘obscenely overpriced to the point of ridiculousness.’ He stayed strictly in the middle of the hallway, hands clenched to keep his natural urge to touch under control.

 

Most of the doors they passed were closed, although John did catch glimpses of imperious-looking sitting rooms and what could have been either a dining room or the seat of a war council; the severely backed chairs looked like they could inspire the sort of fierceness necessary for either endeavor, and John had no problem envisioning Mycroft at home in them.

 

But finally the butler paused before a large, heavy looking wooden door. “Mr. Holmes will be with you shortly, please wait in his study.”

 

John could feel his eyebrows climbing – there was to be _more_ waiting? The doctor harrumphed, crossing the room to sink into one of the leather chairs in front of an enormous desk; he spared a moment to note that it was unexpectedly comfortable, _too_ comfortable, and moved to perch on the edge instead.

 

The room as a whole was somehow softer than John expected – the paintings were pleasant landscapes rather than the imposing portraits he had noticed elsewhere in the house, the curtains a quite lovely satin-blue that John thought Mary would approve of.

 

But perusing the room took a matter of seconds, after which John settled into what he hoped was a ferocious scowl and fixed a glower at the door, ready to blister Mycroft the second he walked in.

 

It was another few minutes before John saw the latch turning; it opened abruptly in a smooth, controlled motion owing to well-oiled hinges. Mycroft strode into the room as he did everything, confidently, and took up residence behind the substantial desk. “Apologies, I had a few matters to take care of,” he said, nudging a few files into a neat pile on the corner, out of the way.

 

“Now, John,” Mycroft addressed over clasped hands, finally looking at the army doctor, “I believe you had some matters to discuss.”

 

And John found he no longer knew what he wanted to be angry over first; the words tumbled out in a jumble all at once, and John could feel himself turning red in frustration.

 

“I – _Your brother_ – Do you even know – A _child_?!” Each statement had been unthinkingly punctuated with a sharp, wild gesture of arms and indignation. John knew he wasn’t making sense, but it seemed he’d lost the ability to do so; he finally clammed up after spitting out the most important bit and just glared at Mycroft expectantly.

 

Mycroft simply stared inscrutably back at John, leaning into his seat. One of his fingers began tapping on the desk while John tried to gather his thoughts, tried to find that cold focus he’d had earlier. 

 

“Well. I would offer you something to drink, but I have a feeling you’d just throw it at me, and I rather like my study walls undented,” Mycroft said sardonically. “Did you know,” he asked John off-hand, “you look a great deal like a gaping fish when you’re angry?”

 

John’s mouth dropped open to respond to that (therein unknowingly proving Mycroft’s point, unfortunately), when Mycroft continued, “But no matter. Why don’t you start at the beginning, John, I’m sure you’ve had quite the trying evening.”

 

John took a moment to narrow his eyes at the placating smile on the older man’s face, hoping he adequately portrayed just how little he appreciated Mycroft’s mollifying.

_Fine. If he wants the whole of it, I’ll give it to him._

 

John leaned back into his own chair, laying his hands out on the armrests, positive he would feel the need to squeeze something before this was all over.

 

“I received a phone call tonight,” he said slowly, deliberately, “from a Miss Lacey Williams. She claimed to be a social worker associated with a London group home for children. I, of course, wondered,” he continued, “in the split second I had to process the whole thing, what on earth she was doing calling _me_ , before she dropped the bombshell. That it was about your _brother,”_ he intoned quietly, somehow managing to make the word sound venomous, “about the _child_ he’d adopted. The one he’s had for _almost a week_ , _Mycroft!_ ”

 

And the tenuous control John had snapped. “How could you not have done something about this yet?! How is it that I was only called about it _now_ – you must have known this was going on Mycroft, I know how ridiculously overbearing you are in spying on Sherlock; if you didn’t want to – to get your hands dirty, or, or spark a fight with him now that he’s back, _you could have called me_ and I would have done something about it!”

 

Throughout John’s entire tirade, Mycroft sat perfectly still, the very picture of a silent audience. Only the occasional eyebrow raise told John the older man was actually taking in anything the doctor had to say; now that he appeared to have paused, Mycroft loosened his rigid posture and John hoped that meant he was gearing up to explain. _Maybe – there must be some sort of plausible reason for all this ridiculousness,_ John thought with a sudden, powerful optimism _, it’s all a big farce, Miss Williams is a suspect, and Sherlock made up some idiotic lie so he could investigate her. Mycroft will mock me for buying into it and almost ruining things, but that will be the end of it, surely._

 

“This was the eighth time Miss Williams has tried to reach you, actually,” Mycroft informed him, scrutinizing his nails. “You’ve been busy.” He looked up at John and smiled then, a sickly looking thing that all but announced his interference.

 

“But yes, my brother has adopted someone into the family.”

“…come again?” John asked weakly, feeling his hopes crashing into pieces, like so many shards of a bowl someone has dropped. He sagged back into his chair, suddenly unsure he could remain upright. 

 

“A boy. He’s six, nearly seven, to be exact.”

 

The smile had gained edges at some point, and John could tell Mycroft was enjoying this. _He’s needling me,_ the doctor realized with a degree of shock.

 

Mycroft continued right on talking, as if he had no inkling of his guest’s thoughts. “They seem to suit each other quite well.”

 

_The whole world’s gone mad,_ John decided.

 

“Mycroft…” John began, sensing it was futile but needing to try anyway, “Mycroft, this is your brother _Sherlock_ , the one who keeps dangerous chemicals and body parts masquerading as food in his kitchen cabinets. The one with a drug habit that still worries you enough to conduct random searches of his flat every other month. The one who decides to shoot at things when he’s _bored._ In what realm would him taking care of a child be a good idea?”

 

Something in Mycroft must have relented then, because he lost the sharpness and sighed. “It’s going much better than you think, John. The social worker checks in on them periodically, and you’ve obviously realized I have been monitoring the situation. Sherlock _does_ possess a modicum of common sense, you know. He’s not the same man you met five years ago.”

 

John did little to hide his dubiousness, prompting Mycroft to add, “Mrs. Hudson has been very helpful, to my understanding. And the boy is rather resourceful.”

 

“A six-year-old,” John said heatedly, incensed again, “should not have to be _resourceful_. A six-year-old should be taken care of by someone who did not have to falsify recommendation letters because he bloody well couldn’t find anyone _to write him a positive one_!” 

 

“They were all sentiments and descriptions you’ve applied to him before,” Mycroft replied loftily, and John suddenly knew exactly where the letter had come from, “just a bit removed from their original context.”

 

“Context?!” John repeated hysterically. “I’d never have passed on a positive recommendation to inflict Sherlock Holmes on a child!”

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed now, and John could tell he had nearly had enough of this conversation. _Too damn bad._

 

“Exactly my point. And look how _well_ he’s doing, John! This never would have happened otherwise.” Mycroft paused to take a breath, and John could see the threads of his control coming back. “Despite your thoughts to the contrary,” he continued, “my brother and I are not quite alike.” There was a sardonic twist to the older man’s lips, a bitter note creeping into his voice. “I could not understand him when he was a child, and it’s taken me thirty odd years to figure out I could do this much for him.”

  
John was at a loss, and a little disturbed, to be honest. “Mycroft…you can’t just give him a child because you think he needs one; the boy’s not a lolly you give to your little brother to make him happy.”

 

Mycroft shot him a look so deeply unimpressed that John felt he had missed something obvious.

 

“We might say that Sherlock didn’t play as well with others as I did,” Mycroft began, clearly thinking on a particular memory, judging from the small, wry curve of a smirk spreading on his face.

 

John privately thought that nothing in the world would make him believe Mycroft Holmes had ever ‘played’ with anyone (in the traditional sense, anyways…playing with them in the way of cats and mice, that was a given).

 

Mycroft seemed to catch the drift of John’s thoughts and sneered. “Yes, well, he never bothered to fake the social niceties, and it left him lonely and bored when his peers simply couldn’t keep up.

 

“It all seemed rather silly to me,” he sniffed. “If there was something he wanted from people, and he knew he could get it by catering to their expectations to their faces, why shouldn’t he do so?”

 

John had never had the fundamental differences between the brothers laid out so plainly, but he supposed this did explain a great deal about them; the doctor wasn’t sure if Mycroft was quite as cold blooded as he was making himself out to be, but John could sense the vague frustration underneath the older man’s words, the lack of comprehension for a little brother that by all rights, should have been exactly like him: a genius in a world of idiots. Instead he got Sherlock, an obstinate thing who was probably tramping out his own path from the day he was born.

  
“I suspected,” Mycroft continued, “after my brother brought you into his life and changed so much, that he thrives on a highly specialized form of companionship. I can no more fill that role for him now than I could when he was a child.” His expression was inscrutable again, and John spared a moment to feel sorry for him, this insufferably complicated man who worried too much over his little brother.

 

“And now that you’ve gotten married, John–”

 

And the moment of pity was over. John sat up in his chair, indignant. “Hang on, so now this is my fault?!”

 

Mycroft looked at him reproachfully. “Well, you’ve left him alone in that flat–”

 

“–it’s not like we were even flat mates this last year! I still see him, Mrs. Hudson’s still there–”

 

“It’s not the same, and you know it,” Mycroft broke in, words heavy. “He needs something; a project to keep his interest.”

 

John took a deep breath through his nose. “Alright,” he conceded, “but a little boy? Shouldn’t he have started easier, with a – a dog, or a plant?” John sputtered in disbelief. “A single-celled organism?!” He laughed weakly, feeling the edge of hysterics coming on.

 

“Don't be stupid, John, it doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft snipped. “Neither plants nor animals are intelligent enough to engage my brother for longer than it would take him to categorize and experiment on them.”

 

“And you expect _a child_ to be capable of holding his interest? Most can barely hold the interest of their own parents, let alone the world’s most ‘brilliant,’” John was shouting again, air quotations audible, voice thick with sarcasm, “consulting detective!”

 

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow at the doctor, clearly imparting that he was just about done putting up with such outbursts. John simply tittered irrationally again, more distressed by the fact that he was even able to interpret that facial expression.

 

In an abstract way, deep down in the part of him that really _knew_ Sherlock, that knewwhat he was like, that knew _what_ he liked, it made sense to John that the only thing Sherlock would bother spending time on was something that could hold his interest. Sherlock could rant and rave about the stupidity of humanity all he liked, but at the root of everything, Sherlock was fundamentally _interested_ in people. He may not always understand them (or even like them), but John quietly believed that that was why Sherlock had bothered to learn so much about them, about how they worked. The brilliant deductions Sherlock made came from observations about people’s actions, their body language, whatever; but the ability to take those observations and turn them into deductions implied he had some sort of base-level knowledge of those details – experimental results tell you nothing unless you have something to compare them to, after all.

 

John suspected Sherlock had been studying people his entire life.

 

Once, in passing fancy, John had likened Sherlock to an anthropology student he had dated, back at Bart’s – the woman was mad for some ancient Tibetan tribe; she could tell you all about their odd little idiosyncrasies, the types of bells they tied on their ankles on feast days, you name it. But there were always a few details she was missing (the reasoning behind it all maybe) because she would never be a part of the culture. Sherlock felt that way, sometimes, to John.

 

So yes, beyond all the bluster and fuss, in a very abstract, twisted way, John could actually follow Mycroft’s logic. But translating that logic into Mycroft’s solution, to bring a child into the fold – _or rather,_ John supposed, _to let Sherlock keep the child he’s already got_ – _that_ was giving the doctor a migraine.

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose then, tired of arguing; it was a useless gesture left over from his father, but something about the motion must have signaled victory to Mycroft, because he was suddenly a great deal more agreeable.

 

“Go and see for yourself, John; if you really think it’s an unhealthy environment, we’ll reevaluate the situation,” he assured, oozing amenability. “But give it a chance; they are quite happy with each other, and thus far, it’s been only beneficial. To the both of them,” the older man added, in case John somehow doubted where Mycroft’s priorities lay.

 

“Perhaps I will,” John demurred, for lack of a better response. He’d lost control of the situation at this point, not that he’d ever really had it.

Mycroft shifted in his seat, finally back to the man John was used to dealing with. “In the interest of finding out how much damage control I’m going to need to do, just what did you say to that social worker?”

 

John lifted an eyebrow, surprised that Mycroft would even bother to ask – wasn’t this sort of thing transcribed and filed somewhere, for easy access?

 

Mycroft responded with his own eyebrow, one that seemed to say ‘humor me.’   

 

John grumbled. “I didn’t want Sherlock arrested, if that’s what you’re worried about, so I tried a hasty patch job, but lord knows the child protective services will be descending on us all at some point.” He eyed the older man and huffed, “You better not pin this whole thing on me, Mycroft, I’ve got a baby of my own on the way to worry about.”

 

“Rest assured, you’ll come out of this smelling like roses,” Mycroft said dryly. “A final word of advice, John, before my driver takes you back to Baker Street: it takes someone of a singular nature to fascinate my brother. Bear in mind that that is not solely a commentary on you,” he said rather cryptically.

 

John’s head was beating a steady rhythm at this point, so he merely mentally rolled his eyes. The only bit of relief came from hearing he was finally headed back to Baker Street; while this whole meeting had turned rather wonky, perhaps some words of wisdom could still make it through to the younger Holmes brother.

 

“It’s been a singular experience, as always, Mycroft.” John got to his feet, suddenly feeling ancient. “Please, for my sake, let’s not repeat it any time soon.”

 

Mycroft smiled then, and cleared his throat. The door opened as if on command, and John reflected that that was probably the case. The butler from before appeared on the other side, and the doctor supposed he had been privy to the entire discussion.

 

“Sir,” the butler rumbled at John, a word that seemed to convey disapproval and respect all at once; it was a rather masterful display of self-expression, one that prompted the doctor to slide his eyes in Mycroft’s direction just in time to catch the hint of a laugh at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Real charmer, your butler,” John told him, before heading out of the room. He thought he remembered most of the way himself, and if not, he was sure the butler was well trained enough to correct him at the first instance of disorientation. _God forbid his master have to put up with me for longer otherwise,_ John thought.

* * *

 

The ride back to Baker Street seemed at once both a longer and a shorter journey than the ride out to the manor had been; John didn’t know if it was because he was worn out after going toe to toe with Mycroft, or simply that a solitary ride was much less stressful than one spent with someone hell-bent on ignoring you in favor of his phone. Either way, John tried not to let his thoughts stretch much beyond the calming city lights out the window.

 

When they finally pulled up outside of a familiar street, John nodded to the driver and stepped calmly into the warm summer night. He knocked on the door of 221 as if in a dream, and absentmindedly greeted Mrs. Hudson when she opened the door.

 

“John!” she exclaimed, surprise evident. “We certainly weren’t expecting to see you so late!”

 

“Hullo, Mrs. Hudson. Is Sherlock in?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“I haven’t heard him leave, if that’s what you mean, but who knows with that one?” she replied, already backing up to let him in.

 

He took a weary step towards the stairs, pausing when he felt a hand on his arm.

 

“John,” she began worriedly.

 

“It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson, I’ve been to see Mycroft already,” he interrupted, wanting to be spared the commentary.

 

She brightened and backed away. “Oh, that’s alright then. I’m off to bed myself. Don’t be a stranger now, I’m sure Harry would love to meet you properly.”

 

_Harry_ , his tired mind thought. _My sister? No – that must be the boy’s name. Apparently I’m always to be given grief by the Harrys of the world._ He took another glance at Mrs. Hudson then, a calculating one; _she’s half smitten with him already. I don’t even know if that’s a good thing or not at this point._

 

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson,” he droned dutifully, hearing her walk back into her apartment. He took a long look up the stairs and began dragging himself up them, suddenly unsure if he was prepared for the monumental effort this was going to take.

 

The door to 221B was squeaky, nothing like the well-oiled barrier to Mycroft’s study, and he took a moment to appreciate how dissimilar the brothers truly were.

 

“Come in, John,” a familiar voice greeted before he even made it into the entryway (and here was the similarity again – no one else could do that quite like a Holmes).The doctor could hear the faint sounds of violin strings being plucked in the living room, so he closed the door and followed the music. He was pleasantly surprised to find his customary seat in place once again; he patted it affably on the arm as he sat down, glad for some comfort after his rollercoaster of an evening.

 

Sherlock had been standing near the window playing absently when he first walked in, but relinquished both his place and the violin to join John, an unexpected gesture.

 

“The boy?” John asked companionably.

 

“He’s sleeping; he usually goes to bed ‘round nine.”

 

Another thing clicked into place for John then: the pick up just in front of Baker Street, the long drive out to a place John was quite sure Mycroft didn’t want invaded, the seemingly endless waiting – they were all a ploy for time, so that once he finally did make it to 221B, the boy would already be out of the way. _It probably explains all the needling, too; Mycroft wanted me to get the yelling out of the way there, so I wouldn’t wake the boy up._  

 

“So,” John said. “I rather think we should have a chat.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Love it, hate it? Was it everything you wanted out of a John!splosion, or not even close? I know it wasn't what people were necessarily expecting after the last chapter. If you felt anything about it whatsoever, I want to know!


	12. Confrontations and Preconceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John has his say (and says a little too much), character revelations abound, and we spend a little time on some puzzling matters.

_“The boy?” John asked companionably._

_“He’s sleeping; he usually goes to bed ‘round nine.”_

_Another thing clicked into place for John then: the pick up just in front of Baker Street, the long drive out to a place John was quite sure Mycroft didn’t want invaded, the seemingly endless waiting – they were all a ploy for time, so that once he finally did make it to 221B, the boy would already be out of the way_. It probably explains all the needling, too; Mycroft wanted me to get the yelling out of the way there, so I wouldn’t wake the boy up.   

_“So,” John said. “I rather think we should have a chat.”_

  

* * *

 

John could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, had felt them since he walked in the door; it was the heavy stare the taller man used when he was analyzing something, _really_ devoting all of his attention to it. That considering gaze meant the detective hadn’t pinpointed and written off all possible outcomes yet, and, unlike his earlier burdens, John momentarily savored the weight of it.

 

A politely interested expression slid into place on the younger man’s face. “Alright,” Sherlock nodded easily, folding his hands across his lap. “What’s on your mind, John?”

 

It was unnaturally neutral for Sherlock, careful even. On a good day, John couldn’t get a grievance out of his mouth before the detective was minimalizing his concerns with a few points of sharp logic and caustic commentary. Sherlock deeply preferred the offensive, so where was his leading statement? It pushed the doctor off balance – _though I suppose_ all _of this has been a deviation from the norm._

 

John narrowed his eyes at the taller man, studying this new facet of his friend. _Fine,_ he thought, _have it your way. I’ll lead._

 

“I came to see if it was true,” the doctor stated mildly, just as verbally noncommittal as Sherlock. The tensing in his shoulders, a result of his ram-rod straight spine, gave away the truth: it was a command away from parade rest, and probably told Sherlock more than he needed. 

 

John knew his opponent though, and forewarned is forearmed. He anticipated Sherlock would dance around the subject for as long as possible – it was a mild baiting tactic the detective favored: Sherlock would ask for clarification repeatedly, prompting John to blow his top; if he lost his temper first, it gave Sherlock the righteous high ground, and he could cut John’s legs from underneath him.

 

They’d gone a few rounds in this particular game before, but John was determined to give a better showing. _So go ahead, deny it,_ he challenged, fortifying his defense. He had some dignity to salvage after meeting with Mycroft, after all.

 

But Sherlock wasn’t playing fair.

 

“Well,” Sherlock began, “I’m not precisely certain what lines Mycroft was feeding you, but if you’re referring to my adoption of Harry, then yes, that’s true.”

 

The statement was brazen, unapologetic, almost completely matter-of-fact – and it threw John for a major loop.

 

“In progress, anyway, I suppose,” Sherlock added, an afterthought.

 

The irritation-provoking drawl was right, but the words were all wrong – where was the negation, the whatever-are-you-talking-about-John?-Of-course-I-haven’t-adopted-a-boy, well-unless-you-mean-this-one-right-here? Sherlock was the king of drama and denial, the supreme ruler of snark and disdain – so what was this?

 

His train of thought derailed yet again ( _seriously, why do I bother planning anything around the Holmes brothers, it’s more apt to drive me mad than accomplish anything)_ , John scrambled. “And this just…struck your fancy one day?”

 

John’s eyes were running over Sherlock’s face repeatedly, searching for any sign this was a joke, that he hadn’t really meant what he’d just said. The calm, vaguely cordial expression was so removed from normal, it was alarming.

 

“It was the culmination of several factors, actually, but the timing seemed right, in light of recent events,” Sherlock informed placidly.

 

“Recent events…like my marriage?” It was the only potentially instigating event John could think of that the detective had dealt with recently. _Though who really knows with Sherlock_ , he thought, still on the borderline between bemused and incredulous.

 

The taller man had continued to watch John throughout their exchange, attention fully devoted to the conversation, and yet it left the doctor feeling oddly like one of their clients; there was an almost clinical feeling of being handled permeating the situation, and it put a bad taste in his mouth.

 

Sherlock paused. “That played a small role,” he granted with a nod, hands coming together to press in front of his chin. It was one of his favored thinking poses, and yet it always looked like an act of supplication to John. It was also the most movement the older man had seen him make all night.

 

“And you just– what, saw one of the little buggers running around the wedding and found your next experiment?”

 

John was definitely tipping over into incensed at this point. His words were growing edges as they spilled from his mouth, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. They at least earned him a sharp glance of reassessment; he could see the detective changing tactics. It was nothing so obvious as a physical tell – Sherlock would sneer over something so blatant – but John could see glimpses of the man he was used to poking through, and that eased some of his agitation.

 

_Finally._

 

“I wouldn’t be so trite as to call it an experiment,” Sherlock said slowly, with the air of someone trying to navigate uncharted waters, “but I suppose in some sense I’m embarking on a new venture, to which I don’t know the end result. I don’t even have a working hypothesis for it yet,” he disclosed to John, a grave look on his face.

 

John stared, teetering back to uneven ground.

 

Who was this philosopher in front of him? Oh, they’d had philosophical debates before, on morality or ethics most often; it was a rather inescapable topic in their line of work. But John almost always took on the role of the moral high ground, often futilely, whereas Sherlock was the quintessential Devil’s advocate, the man with the Machiavellian outlook on life and some (odd) disinclination to act on it. _(And thank whatever God exists for that – the world couldn’t handle a Holmes on the warpath)._

 

But this was almost… _quaint,_ for lack of a better word.Had the detective gone and had a mid-life crisis when John wasn’t looking?

 

“But what- what ever made you think you could take care of a child? For that matter, why would you even _want_ to?” He didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but this question had been bothering John since he’d first even entertained the idea that any of this could be true.

 

As far as John had seen, Sherlock had shown little to no interest in the few children they’d interacted with over the course of their cases. He certainly didn’t go out of his way to comfort them or soften the truth; that was always John’s job. Where was all of this coming from?

 

The only answer John kept circling back to was that it was that it had to be some sort of observation attempt; some inane question had struck Sherlock’s addled brain one day, and, Sherlock being Sherlock, the only thing to do was to snatch the nearest child and divine the answer. Legal steps were only taken because anything else would have been too much of a hassle.

 

_(Or perhaps it was a test of the adoption system, a way to demonstrate yet another shortcoming of the government and have the last laugh over his brother?)_

 

It simply couldn’t be real.

 

Sherlock sniffed in disdain, taking his weighty gaze off the doctor as he rolled his eyes (at last, something John was used to). “It isn’t as if it’s all that hard. Completely unsuitable people run around having children all the time, and you don’t seem to be getting up in arms over them. Mine feeds himself for the most part, and Mrs. Hudson fusses _incessantly_. He’s certainly smart enough to avoid jumping in front of cars or some other such nonsense,” audible snort, “and in the event that he falls ill, I _do_ have a few connections at the local hospital.” The dry tone was complemented with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed at John’s specious protest.  

 

John was at a loss – rational, and yet completely missing the point. It was the most Sherlock-like thing the detective had said all night.

 

“That’s different and you know it,” he began, trying to switch gears.

 

“It really isn’t, John,” Sherlock broke in, insistent. “The number of people who hire out their child’s needs is beyond comprehension. Don’t have time to take your daughter to the park today? That’s okay, hire a nanny to do it for you. She’ll probably handle meals and bedtimes to boot. Education? Public schools. Or there’s the whole package – advertising for these things is practically the bread and butter of boarding schools.” The derision was so strong it was practically solid.

 

John opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. He couldn’t really argue with Sherlock on that matter, having had a nanny himself, and that wasn’t his point anyway. “There are some basic needs you just can’t provide, Sherlock,”

 

“Can’t I? Food, water, shelter and clothing – we have all of that here in 221B.”

 

“Alright, fine,” John said impatiently, “but parenting is more than just monitoring his temperature during fevers and making sure he gets his three square meals a day, Sherlock. I’m not sure how you and Mycroft were raised, but for the rest of the world, it’s a cold childhood without compassion, or hugs. Affection.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “You can’t really be naïve enough to believe every child has access to that growing up.”

 

It was detached, and it echoed back to their first year as flatmates so abruptly John was left reeling.

 

John wouldn’t call himself an optimist by any stretch of the word. He was an army doctor. He’d seen some of the worst things human beings can do to each other, and even once he’d returned, living with Sherlock had meant being subjected to the dregs of society at least every other week. If anything, he considered himself a realist.

 

And while he abstractly knew everything was certainly not sunshine and roses for every child, he’d still maintained a degree of hope and faith. Per usual, Sherlock had stomped all over it. (And in the back of his mind, it made him wonder what Sherlock had seen, what he’d been exposed to, that gave him such authority on the subject).

 

But John’s mouth ran away with him, rather than force his brain to think more on the matter.

 

“And by adopting him, you’re preventing him from the possibility of finding that with a good family!”

 

“And he could be one of the thousands of children who bounce around the system, from household to abusive household, until he ends up as part of my homeless network,” Sherlock was just as quick to respond. “We don’t know,” he said calmly.

 

“But there’s a chance –“

 

“John,” he cut through, assertive. “I know I’m not perfect, and I’m not anyone’s first choice for a…guardian. I’ve made Harry aware of that, to the best of my ability. I’m not claiming to be the ideal solution here, but _believe_ that I researched and considered and hypothesized every possible scenario I could think of. We’ll make it work.”

 

And in the silent vacuum left as John tried to wrap his head around that weighty declaration, a throat was cleared.

 

The vaguely high-pitched noise drew his attention to the stairwell like a homing beacon, where his eyes lit on a small form wrapped in a maroon dressing gown.

 

“I-“ the figure began, almost too soft to hear. “Sorry,” he tried a little louder, “I just heard voices. I would have stayed in my room, but then I heard you say ‘John,’ and I was, er, curious,’” the boy told Sherlock, looking over to John’s chair.

 

John stared, finally confronted with this being he’d heard so much about. For causing all this fuss, he was rather…diminutive.

 

John was used to being one of the shortest people in a room; he’d learned to live with it, no matter how irksome. And yet, between the leading lines of the doorway and the rather large dressing gown, the illusion of small pervaded.

 

The boy was thin, built with that same wispy look John imagined Sherlock had as a child. In fact, the unruly hair looked even more unmanageable than Sherlock’s tousled curls. John elected to give bed head the benefit of the doubt, and hoped for Mrs. Hudson’s sake the boy’s hair was a little more cooperative. She’d despaired over Sherlock’s often enough.

 

Between the wild mop and the glasses taking up half of his very serious face, there was little John could do to ignore the fact that he was what Mary would classify as ‘charming.’

 

“Harry,” Sherlock replied brightly, “why don’t you come out from the stairwell – since you’re awake anyway, we’ll do introductions.” The consulting detective looked inordinately pleased, and John couldn’t help the sneaking suspicion that this was some sort of ploy.

 

The boy blinked at them shyly from the doorway, before padding in on silent steps. He stood uncertainly a few feet into the room – delicately, as if wishing he could fade into the background – before taking a breath to steady himself; it was like watching him solidify into existence, John thought, oddly fascinated.

 

“Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock announced from his chair, “may I present to you Harry Potter, lately of 221B?”

 

John belatedly rose to his feet upon the introduction, manners autonomously running his body. The child reared back a bit, but then leaned forward, determined.

 

“How do you do, sir?” the boy asked, tone grave, hand outstretched.

 

The doctor’s hand came out automatically, taking the small hand into a light handshake, afraid to crush it. The warm pressure in response had more force than he was expecting, to his pleasant surprise. _‘A strong handshake bodes well for a young man,’_ came his father’s voice, a fleeting memory from his childhood.

 

“…Well, thank you. And you?”

 

“Quite well, sir,” was the quiet response. Luminous eyes peered up at John from behind rectangular spectacles. “Would you like some tea?”

 

“Er, sure?”

 

Harry nodded to himself, and released John’s hand. He glanced at Sherlock questioningly, which prompted John to do the same. The detective nodded genially, which was apparently some sort of signal – a murmured ‘excuse me,’ to the room, and the boy retreated to the kitchen. John could hear muted puttering as tea things were presumably assembled.

 

Sherlock looked amused, and gestured the doctor back to his seat.

 

John blindly reached backwards and sank down into his comforting armchair. At least it was still behaving exactly the way he was expecting. His best friend, on the other hand…

 

Sherlock’s voice when introducing the boy had been filled with something like _pride,_ seeming to say, _look at what I found, look at what I brought into my life, all by myself!_ John had heard that before, sometimes when he explained to John a particularly difficult case, childish glee practically bursting out of him. 

 

Truth be told, John probably had about the same experience with children that Sherlock had, prior to the adoption of course. He’d certainly not seen any in med school, or in the army, and the clinic he worked at was a general practice for adults, not pediatrics. It wasn’t like he was going to be getting any nieces or nephews from his sister’s side of things any time soon. He’d been no small bit of terrified to find out he was going to be a father – still was, honestly. It was just another to add to the litany of things that could keep him awake at night, holding Mary and staring up at his ceiling.

 

So while he was perfectly willing to ream Sherlock out for his lack of experience, it wasn’t exactly like he had much to fall back on either – and when faced with a solemn, sleepy-eyed boy staring at him from the doorway, well, he didn’t quite know what to do.

 

Sherlock snorted, finally unable to watch John turn mental acrobatics anymore. “He’s a person, John, same as you or me. Treat him like it.”

 

And with that, the surrealism of this night was truly complete. _Adequate advice on how to behave in front of other people from Sherlock Holmes. I never thought I’d see the day._

 

So when the boy returned with two teacups carefully held to prevent spilling, a frown of concentration in place, John did his best to react normally as Harry made his way to the doctor first.

 

 _That’s it, though,_ John realized, wondering as he took the tea from the child. _He talks about the boy like he’s practically an adult already._

Harry moved on to hand the remaining cup to the now standing detective, before returning to the kitchen. Sherlock set his tea down and brought another chair over, one of the few clients usually used. By the time the boy was back with his own drink, the detective was once again ensconced in his own seat.

 

 _Not the full service,_ John noted absently as he stared into his cup, not criticizing – the fact the boy had even offered and prepared it all on his own in the first place was already a testament to his manners. John had certainly not been that conscientious at his age.

 

He took a sip to be polite, figuring he could bear with one bitter swallow or two, only to find it made to his exact specifications, two sugars and all. _Lemon balm? That’s new – I haven’t had that since secondary school; mum used to make it when I was studying for my A-levels._ He looked up in surprise, only to see the boy watching him closely.

 

Harry blushed and looked down. “Sherlock mentioned how you take your tea,” he provided without prompting. “I hope it’s to your liking;” he added nervously. “I couldn’t find the tea tray or I’d have brought out everything directly.”

 

“It’s currently supporting my acid experiment,” Sherlock piped in. No apologies for the inconvenience of course, just a stated fact.

 

Harry shrugged, taking the information without even a blink. No exasperation, no confusion as to why in the world it was serving such an odd purpose, just acceptance that that was how things were.

 

“It’s lovely, thank you,” John replied eventually, still pondering the interaction.

 

Harry looked pleased as he responded with a gracious, “You’re welcome,” and Sherlock had acquired that tilt to his mouth that said he was simultaneously amused and happy, and John was somehow stumbling around in the middle of it all.

 

 _Sounds a bit like business as usual, then,_ came the cynical side of his brain.

 

They sat in quiet silence for a few moments, appreciating the calm a cup of tea could bring, before John felt compelled to open his mouth.

 

“So – Harry – tell me about yourself.” John winced as soon as he said it; he’d always hated the open-ended questions Uncle Melvin asked at _every single_ family Christmas when he was a boy, and yet here he was, doing the same damn thing. 

 

To the boy’s credit, just as John was scrambling to salvage the situation, Harry rallied. The brief flash of deer-in-headlights look was replaced with quiet determination.

 

“Well…Sherlock’s been teaching me deduction,” he offered tentatively.

  
  
John couldn’t help but give a bark of laughter at that; part of him wasn’t surprised at all – of course Sherlock was already molding the boy, wasn’t that the way he’d started with John, too? _Sherlock wants someone to keep up with him. He won’t stoop to our level (_ nor should he have to, said the righteous part of him), _so he’s trying to elevate us to him._

 

The problem was, this was a child. Sherlock made John feel like an idiot five minutes after meeting him; while irritating beyond measure, John had thicker skin. But he remembered enough from his Intro Psych course to know children were not programmed the same way.

 

“Has he, now?” he asked, throwing a careful, assessing glance at Sherlock, receiving a devious glint in response. _How much damage has he done already?_ “And how has that been going?”

 

“Well, I think – it’s great fun. I’m not as good as Sherlock, of course,” the boy said modestly – _not searching for praise, no looking to Sherlock, just an earnest opinion_ , John thought with a hint of surprise – “but there’s so much more than I expected. And I got to meet Angelo and people watch for a bit,” he finished off with a small upturn of the mouth.

 

The modesty spoke more of shyness than a lack of self-confidence, which was good. _Seems Sherlock wasn’t so caught up in showing off he stomped all over the boy’s personality._

 

John snorted at the thought, before immediately realizing how that would come off – _like kicking a puppy_ – and leapt to fix it. “No one’s as good as Sherlock,” he said kindly, before casting an evil smirk in Sherlock’s direction, “except for Mycroft, of course.”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to snort then, giving a quiet huff before pointedly ignoring John.

 

Harry just looked on with a confused smile, the air of someone not quite in on the joke.

 

“Harry’s ears might be better than mine, actually,” Sherlock cut in, changing the subject. _How kind of him to join us._

That set off a fierce blush; _now I know he can’t have been here long. There’s not a humble bone in Sherlock’s body, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t rub off in the worst way._ It was true John was still the patient one of the duo, but only by dint of having Sherlock to be compared against; John himself had been insufferable with the first few incompetent clinic assistants after Sherlock’s absence. It’d taken some time and space to regain his generally tolerant demeanor.

 

“He’s got quite a set of observational skills already,” Sherlock continued, “just needs the base knowledge to apply them.” A pointy smile. “You could learn a few things from him, John.”

 

John lifted an unimpressed eyebrow and opened his mouth to respond with something less kind, before catching the slight shifting from the boy’s direction. _We’re making him uncomfortable_ , he realized. He went with a rueful smile towards the boy instead, a commiserating, “What can you do with him?” gesture.

 

“I don’t know the first thing about medicine,” the boy shrugged, surprising John yet again. “What Dr. Watson can do is incredible,” he added, turning those bright eyes on John.

 

“John, please, no need for Dr. Watson’s here,” the doctor demurred, hesitant in the face of unexpected praise from the boy.

 

The boy ducked his head, but nodded in agreement.

 

 _Diplomatic, isn’t he? That’s good, he’ll need it to get himself out of the scrapes Sherlock lands them in,_ John thought distantly. 

 

Wait.

 

There would be no ‘scrapes,’ no fast-talking situations – _he’s six years old, dammit, remember that!_

John shook his head, hoping for some clarity. _Right, conversation._

 

“So, Harry, where are you from originally? Had you ever been to London before coming to Baker Street?” John was racking his brain for small talk – it usually wasn’t this hard, he’d certainly had plenty of practice over the years ( _this is what happens when you willingly make friends with sociopaths – you become responsible for most of the smooth-talking_ ), but nothing was quite right tonight.

 

There was a small pause, barely noticeable but to those with trained eyes, before the boy responded. “The home I was in, St. James’, they were based in Shepherd’s Bush, I think. They would take us on some trips out to London; we went to the zoo a few weeks ago.”

 

 _Avoided the first question there, likely a sensitive topic._ John mentally smacked himself. _Orphan, remember?_ John followed the boy’s lead and let the question lie.

  
“That’s a rather nice part of town; don’t get out there much, but Sherlock and I had a case there a few months back.”

 

Evidently he’d hit on the right topic at last, judging from the fire of interest in the boy’s eyes at the word ‘case.’ John was gently prompted to fall (rather willingly) into the role of storyteller for the evening.

 

It was a quite easy – this particular story had been shared out to a few crowds, so he had all of the dramatic points down pat. It was flattering to have such a devoted audience (the boy’s luminescent eyes only seemed to grow wider with each plot twist), but of course Sherlock couldn’t let him have all of the attention; the consulting detective broke in at several high points, caught between keeping John honest and outrage at the way his behavior was being described.

 

It coaxed some giggles from the boy, which of course led John to rehash some of Sherlock’s more shining moments.

 

He got so into the banter after a while, that when he looked to Harry for a supportive eye roll, he was surprised to find the boy quietly dozing in his chair, breaths soft and long. _Lucky he set the teacup down on the floor earlier, that would have made for some excitement._

 

He cut off suddenly, glancing to Sherlock to see him watching the child with an almost fond look on his face.

 

“A moment,” Sherlock said absently, “I’ll take him to bed.” The consulting detective carefully reached over to touch the boy on his shoulder.

 

 _Must be a light sleeper,_ John thought as Harry’s eyes opened instantly, though it took him a second longer to focus on Sherlock’s face.

 

“Off to bed, I think,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

Harry gave a disoriented nod and got to his feet stiffly. Judging by the grimace on his face, some body part had fallen asleep, but it didn’t slow his rise out of the chair.

 

John was jealous – if he’d fallen asleep like that, he’d be feeling it all the next day. _The power of youth,_ he thought sagely.

 

“Good night, sir. It was a pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, stopping by the doctor’s seat with a slight bow.

 

John was surprised at the show of manners again, especially for a half-asleep sprite.

 

“You as well, Harry,” he said with a warm smile. “Sleep well.”

 

The boy offered a quiet smile in response and began gathering the tea things.

 

“Leave it,” Sherlock told him. “We’ll get it.”

 

Harry woke up enough to kick up a disbelieving eyebrow of his own.

 

“Well,” Sherlock amended with a small smirk, “John will.”

 

The boy looked mildly nonplussed ( _and isn’t that a familiar expression?_ ).

 

John grimaced at Sherlock, before replying more gently, “He’s right. It’s the least I can do after you poured for us.”

 

Harry was uncertain. “If you’re sure,” he said hesitantly, obviously reluctant to leave a mess for guests.

 

John gave a firm nod. “Off to bed with you.”

 

Harry relented and made for the stairs, fatigue evident.

 

Sherlock and John sat in companionable silence in the wake of the boy’s departure.

 

“More tea?” Sherlock finally asked, eyes still unfocused as he processed his own thoughts.

 

“Oh, might as well,” John conceded, still mulling over the night himself.

 

The doctor wasn't sure he’d have given the boy a second glance had he walked past him on the street, but after watching him for just a few minutes, observing him interact with Sherlock and John himself, John was starting to see what had captured Sherlock’s interest.

 

He really was like a miniature adult, albeit with a little less worldly experience. But the easily devoted attention would have appealed to Sherlock – hell, it appealed to John; it was always nice to have someone properly appreciate one’s skills. He was a little biddable, which John wondered about; on the one hand, biddable meant he would willingly do what Sherlock asked with little complaint, a definite pro in the detective’s book. On the other hand, Sherlock didn’t respect people who didn’t think for themselves.

 

 _But I suppose I can think of some moments I’ve been a little more ‘biddable’ than I wished; Sherlock just has that effect on people. And maybe a little flexibility is necessary to keep from killing him,_ he snorted _._

 

John’s main concern was that Sherlock would crush the boy’s forming personality; the detective was so much larger than life, it was hard to keep from just watching him. _He’s like a train wreck that way – you get so caught up in the trauma you forget to move out of the way of the debris._

 

 _Then again, he was careful to ask for the boy’s opinion, he didn’t just talk over him the way he does Anderson…_ maybe _, and that’s a_ big _maybe, this could work._

 

 _Jury’s out_ , John decided finally. All he knew was that he’d be paying 221B a lot more frequent visits in the coming weeks. 

 

“Well, he’s remarkable, I’ll give you that,” John told the detective as Sherlock returned with more tea. “Think he heard much of our row?” he grimaced.

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in response as he poured. “What do you think?”

 

John sighed. “I suppose so. New blend?” he asked, curious – Sherlock wasn’t normally responsible for the edible contents of his kitchen.

 

The detective took his seat again. “Mmm. Well-noted for its soothing qualities.”

 

John thought through the implications there, chagrinned.

 

“Attentive, isn’t he?” Sherlock asked with a sardonic twist of lips.

 

“Evidently,” John said into his cup, embarrassed at being so subtly cossetted.

 

“He likes to take care of people,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hands. “Mrs. Hudson and he have been conspiring on meals all week.”

 

John gave an absent smile, more pressing matters on his mind. “You told him about me?” he asked finally, overcome by the need to know.

 

“Of course I did,” Sherlock relented, annoyed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, you were always going to meet him eventually.”

 

John reached for his exasperation then, needing the sharp indignation to carry him through this conversation.

“Were you _ever_ going to tell _me_ , Sherlock?” John slumped back into his chair, left with this festering frustration. _Manipulation after manipulation._ “Or was the plan always that I would drop in one day and the boy would just be here, business as usual? Did you think I wouldn't notice an extra meter clutching at your coattails at the next crime scene?” John winced at the bitterness that had leaked into his tone by the end, _though why should I feel bad about that? I want him to understand I’m angry with him_.

 

“Oh, don't be so melodramatic, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, dropping the amiability altogether and easing off into more familiar territory. “He’s only been here a week; we needed time to settle in. I’ve hardly taken him out on a case yet.” It was the slightest change of posture, but now Sherlock looked every inch the bored king ensconced on his leather throne, suffering through the qualms of an overly opinionated advisor. It did a great deal to put John back on even footing.

 

“Really?” John lifted his eyebrows in a display of skepticism, leaning forward to firmly thump his hand against the armrest. “You’ll have to pardon me for not believing you; that certainly didn't stop you from dragging me along before we’d even known each other for much more than an hour!”

 

“Do try to keep it down, John, he’s just gone back to bed half an hour ago,” Sherlock admonished, features sharp. “And there’s a great deal of difference between a six-year-old and an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an addiction to danger.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, irritated that John was fastened to such a low opinion of him. “Besides, use your brain; you don't think you would have gotten a call from George by now if I’d taken the boy out on a case with me already?””

 

“Geor-? It’s _Greg_ , actually,” John bit out acidly, annoyed at having to correct Sherlock for the thousandth time, “and that just goes to prove my point! How can you expect to care for a child when you can barely remember the first name of a man you’ve known for over seven years now?”

 

“How is that even relevant? Harry and I are getting along quite splendidly, and besides– “

 

“-It’s been a _week,_ Sherlock; beyond the fact that I’m mystified he even lasted two hours before accidentally poisoning himself by making use of your misappropriated sugar bowl, a week is no time at all in the grand scheme of things! We’re talking eleven _years_ , here, Sherlock – you can’t just decide you’re bored one day and be done with it!” The anger that had been building up before the boy interrupted was spilling over now.

 

“I’m well aware of that, John – it’s been explained to me multiple times, in almost every possible permutation of the English language,” Sherlock responded, tone nasty. “Both Harry and I know things might not work out perfectly; we’ve come to an agreement should such a situation ever arise.”

 

“You can’t expect a six-year-old to understand something like that,” John hissed, half-certain Sherlock had made this agreement all on his own. The doctor took a deep breath in through his nose, wishing he had something more to do with his hands than clench and unclench them furiously. He felt half a minute away from punching the great idiot, and the more rational side of his brain was trying to convince the rest of him that nothing would get solved that way. _But I’d feel better,_ he whined.

 

 _Not the point,_ the rational side said firmly. _Alright, different tactic._

 

“Surely he’s not providing you with the intellectual stimulation you need, Sherlock,” he said, coaxing.

 

Sherlock just snorted. “He’s doing miles better than the rest of Britain’s populace.”

 

John chose to let that comment go. “Come on, let’s work a case – that’ll get you back to the swing of things. I haven’t checked the blog inbox in a few weeks, I’m sure there’s a stockpile of decent cases by now; they were certainly flooding in last month.”

 

“A case or two of note, nothing truly interesting. A few perfectly obvious, but ideal for Harry’s preliminary logic studies…” he trailed off, plotting face in place.

 

 _He’s hacked the password again, blast it,_ John thought, momentarily distracted. _I’ll have to get Mary to set it this time, he knows me too well at this point–_

 

“Why are we still having this conversation, John?” Sherlock cut in, serious again.

 

“Because that’s what adults do, they talk about their problems, rather than just assuming they’ll go away or sort themselves out,” John answered, frustrated Sherlock was being so uncooperative.

 

“He’s _not_ a problem,” Sherlock denied sharply, an edge to his voice.

 

“Alright,” John relented, sensing he’d erred. “Not a problem then, but friends talk about what’s going on in their lives too, Sherlock.”

 

“Because you’ve kept me so up to date on your life recently?” came the smooth response, dangerous.

 

John exhaled, trying to keep calm. “I admit, I haven’t exactly been around much lately, but in my defense I just got married and found out I’m having a baby a few months ago. I’m sorry I’ve left you alone, but Sherlock, you didn’t have to go out and do something so – so _rash_.”

 

“It wasn’t rash!” Sherlock had clearly hit his limit. “Admittedly, we moved down a faster-paced schedule than usual, but neither of us are very conventional people. I put thought and planning into this, John, it wasn’t just a spur-of-the-moment thing!”

 

John didn’t quite know what to do in the face of this unexpected outburst – he was usually the one losing his top; Sherlock only got this way when something happened to remind him he was convinced the whole world was full of idiots.

 

Sherlock’s voice softened after a pause. “To answer your question from earlier, I’m perfectly aware that I’m no one’s first choice for a guardian. I’m abrasive, impatient, and occasionally, incomprehensible, or so I’ve been told.” The sardonic eyebrow was a nice touch. 

 

“I _know_ there are areas I’m deficient in, John. I’ve never pretended to be perfect, or even very good,” he smiled dryly. “But recently I’ve considered myself fortunate in my friends; they seem to make up for the areas I lack.

 

“And Harry – well, I believe we can make up for some things that have been deficient for him as well. I chose him very carefully. I still don’t think I’d be suited to handle a normal child, nor would I have the inclination to do so. But Harry is curious, he wants to learn – he already observes a great deal more than most people five times his age, let alone his peers.

 

“It’s not like I’m doing this _entirely_ alone either, John. Mrs. Hudson is quite involved, and happy to be so, if I'm any judge – she’s averaged a half hour of every day prattling on about grandmotherhood,” he said, voice traipsing off into disgust.

 

“Mycroft has already made a nuisance of himself, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Sherlock scowled automatically at the mention of his brother, “and the home staff, of course. I’d rather hoped you and Mary would have a hand in things, as well. Nobody _else_ is going to be able to teach him how to play at normal,” he added, a small wry grin appearing.

 

“How to _be_ normal, you mean,” John corrected absently, still caught at the detective’s earlier words.

 

“Well,” Sherlock said noncommittally, grin still in place.

 

John felt a ghost of a smile split across his face unwillingly.

 

“You were always meant to be involved, John,” Sherlock affirmed.

 

“How do you know it will work?” John asked slowly.

 

“I don’t. But I do have faith.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock eventually convinced a discombobulated John he needed to go home before heading for bed himself; it’d been a long night, but regardless he’d awoken to the smell of frying bacon and the whistle of a teakettle, signs that the world was still standing and morning had come to 221B Baker Street.

 

Breakfast was the usual affair; the boy grew more relaxed day by day, although Sherlock spent the morning dodging some of Mrs. Hudson’s more pointed glances. _Nosy woman – probably won’t have a moment’s peace until she’s heard it out from the both of us._

The detective hunted for a viable excuse to escape her claws – _really, one can only be expected to take so many heart-to-hearts in a twenty-four hour period_ – before remembering what he’d intended to do with this day in the first place.

 

“Harry,” he said, turning to his charge just as he was hopping up to clear the table, “today we’ll have a new lesson. Tidy up and then join me in the den.”

 

Sherlock spared a brief moment to appreciate the earnest curiosity spreading across the boy’s face, and then twisted to address the housekeeper on the other side of him ( _quickly, lest she see this as an opening_ ). “Mrs. Hudson,” he beckoned in his kindest voice, “might I prevail upon you to pick up a few things from the store today? I’ve a list.”

 

“Certainly, Sherlock,” she said, a tad surprised at the request, “what do you need?”

 

The detective began his recitation: “Sugar, a second tea tray, Clorox, Dijon mustard–”

 

“Oh bother it,” she cut in crabbily with an annoyed eye, “you haven’t got it written down, have you? I’ll never remember all that; hold on a tic while I find a bit of paper.”

  
Sherlock let a ghost of a smile cross his face – one housekeeper, successfully deterred.

 

He’d timed it so well that by the time Mrs. Hudson was back, his rather extensive list dutifully recorded, Harry had appeared at his elbow, face eager and hands still vaguely damp. _And it only took an extra seven items,_ mental _-_ John snarked, still in full form despite last night.

 

Sherlock felt the vague scowl Mrs. Hudson cast him as she trundled off down the stairs to pick up her purse, rightly suspicious. He couldn’t suppress his smirk then, and the gleeful countenance sparked an eyebrow raise from his charge.

 

 _Wonder where he got that expression from_ , came the doctor’s dry tones.

“Now,” he ignored John, ushering the boy further into the den, “it’s high time we begin your logic studies.

 

“Logic,” he began, sweeping the desk contents off in one dramatic motion, “is a method of reasoning that allows one to form deductions about the world around us.” He pressed Harry into a seat beside him. “It is an incredibly difficult topic to master, and people have devoted their entire lives to its study. I certainly don’t expect you to master it any time soon, but the correct and practical application of logic can be a great skill to have. Observation is of course important, because it allows us to gather data, but without the ability to apply logic to that data, it is rendered a rather useless set of occurrences.”

 

A quick glance told him Harry was listening with the quiet, rapt attention he paid all of Sherlock’s lessons, not even batting an eye at the wild gestures the detective enjoyed employing for emphasis.

 

“Deductions,” he enunciated next, “are conclusions that one can reach by applying a set of logic to the situation. For instance,” Sherlock segued, hoping to give the boy a somewhat relatable example, “refrigerators are cold, yes?”

 

“I suppose so?” the boy responded dubiously, caught in the subject change.

 

“But they run off of electricity, so a broken refrigerator or one that is not plugged in will not be cold, correct?”

 

“Sure, makes sense,” Harry nodded.

 

“So if I encounter a refrigerator at room temperature, the logical conclusion would be?” the detective trailed off, hoping he’d led his charge in the correct direction.

  
“Something’s wrong with the power, or it’s busted?” the boy offered. “Or the temperature gauge is off,” he added last-second.

 

“Precisely,” Sherlock said, adding a small rewarding smile for Harry’s thoroughness. “Of course, most situations aren’t that simple, but the idea is the same. You already use logic in some manner in your daily life, but a crucial step in improving your technique is to make yourself aware of the process. Thus,” Sherlock said with a flourish, “the logic puzzle.” He produced a thin workbook from the desk clutter, and set it down on the cleared space in front of them.

 

Sherlock watched as Harry examined it for a few moments, taking in the bright colors and large, noisy font plastered on the cover. The beginnings of a smile cracked the boy’s serious mien.

 

“It may look gaudy, but we use the tools at hand,” the older man informed him with a sniff.

 

Harry tried to nod studiously and ducked his head when it became evident he couldn’t hide the grin.

 

Sherlock gave it up as a lost battle and trudged on valiantly. “The first puzzle, we will attempt together, and then if I feel you have a relative grasp on the subject, I’ll leave you to attempt a few more.”

 

The detective flipped open the book to the first page. “Now, there are some preliminary rules and tips located here; I recommend taking some time to look over them yourself if you like – the wording is rather juvenile and flippant, but the principles underlying them are sound,” he conceded. “I’ll give you an overview of what you need to know now.”

 

The boy squirmed a bit beside him, so Sherlock fixed an eye on him, hoping to prompt the question.

 

“Just a moment, sir,” Harry asked when he saw he had the older man’s attention, hopping up to retrieve the little notebook and pencil he used for their lessons. Sherlock despaired of breaking him of the manners; for whatever reason, the boy refused to call him anything else during their periods of instruction in the mornings.

 

He gave Harry time to resettle, before beginning his lecture again. “Each puzzle is predicated by a story of some sort,” he paused, seeing the confusion flash on his charge’s face. “Each puzzle has a story at the beginning of it, to set the scene, if you will,” he amended.

 

“View this story as your preliminary – introductory – research, but don’t get too bogged down by it; the story itself isn’t important so much – you need it to identify the clues, yes, and it provides context, but otherwise it doesn’t play as key a role as you might think.”

 

Sherlock received a slightly perplexed nod from the boy, but moved on with his explanation.

 

“So,” he said, turning his attention to the top of the second page. “In this puzzle, ‘David’ delivers flowers to four different women for four different reasons. Your task is to determine the order he delivered them in and for what occasions the flowers were ordered. They have given you a grid to help you keep track of what you know,” he said, gesturing to the three grids of four squares by four squares. “Put an X in each as you rule out that possibility and a dot in the correct ones.

 

“Something to note,” he said seriously, turning to his charge. “In these puzzles, unless it says otherwise, there is only one correct chain of events – for instance, our flower delivery man can never deliver to someone at the same exact time, so no two women will be delivered in the same order, nor will they share an occasion for delivery; that’s something established in the boundaries of the story, but do not make the mistake of thinking that real life works the same way. You will limit your thinking dangerously if you hold on to that belief.”

 

After another confused nod – _good enough, we’ll work on the practical understanding of that point later –_ he allowed Harry to read through the clues once by himself, before breaking down the process.

 

He cleared his throat, drawing the boy’s attention again. “The first clue is entirely too easy: it tells you rather openly right off the bat that the second delivery went to Grace, and the fourth to Lena.”

 

The puzzle was almost painfully simple for the detective, but he tried to remain in perspective. John’s voice helped – _this isn’t for you Sherlock, keep a leash on the “all-knowing” routine. Walk him through it, be_ helpful, _but don’t berate him with the answer._

 

“Why are those even clues then, why not set that up as part of the story?” the boy cut in, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“Why do you think?” Sherlock asked, turning it into a teaching moment.

 

“Er…I guess, there must be something important there?” Harry speculated.

 

The statement was too open-ended – _it’s no good if he uses me as an indicator of importance, that defeats the purpose –_ so Sherlock just favored him with a raised eyebrow. “Mm, we’ll see.”

 

Harry dutifully put dots in the two corresponding squares, examining the other boxes as he did. “Well,” he articulated slowly, “I guess if they’re definitely second and fourth, that means Tia and Melony must be either first or third.”

 

“Good,” Sherlock praised, “that is a correct deduction.” _He doesn’t see all of it yet, but…_

 

 _Baby steps,_ John’s voice cut in, gentle but firm. _Let him figure it out for himself._

 

Harry read the second clue aloud. “‘ _Either the third or fourth delivery was to the woman who is celebrating the grand opening of her business.’_ Well that’s not very helpful,” he said with a frown, “We don’t know who owned the business yet.”

 

The boy looked to Sherlock for guidance again, but the detective kept his silence on the matter, urging him to come to his own conclusions.

 

“It could be Lena, I suppose,” Harry said doubtfully. “Since she’s fourth. But we don’t know yet…” The pencil hovered doubtfully over the page.

 

“Leave it for now then,” Sherlock suggested. “Often clues won’t make sense until you have the rest of the pieces sorted out.”

 

They turned their attention to the third clue, which articulated that the birthday bouquet was neither for Grace nor delivered third.

 

“That means Lena could have been either the business or the birthday,” Harry postulated, a bit put out.

 

 _He needs a nudge, he’s not quite approaching it right._ “Try not to think about all the possibilities that are left open; instead, what do we know no longer could have happened?”

 

The boy stared at the page blankly for a moment. “Oh, right, Grace couldn’t have been the birthday – that needs an X as well.”

 

“Good – and what else do we know about Grace?”

 

“She was delivered to second; so does that mean whoever had the birthday wasn’t delivered to either second or third? They had to be first or fourth?” Harry looked up to his mentor, green eyes calculating.

 

“Excellent, that’s narrowing things down well. Be sure to mark down what you know,” Sherlock chided.

 

Harry hunted down the appropriate squares and X’d them out. The grid was still looking empty; the consulting detective could see the dubious look creeping back onto Harry’s face.

 

 _Oh ye of little faith,_ John quoted, amused.

 

Sherlock jumped in again, trying to be patient. _He’s new to this, and at least he’s trying – that’s a good deal more than some others would do at this point,_ he reminded himself _._ “Now, in conjunction with the others, this fourth clue is the most useful yet: it tells us that Tia was neither delivered to first nor celebrating a recent promotion. Why is this our best clue?”

  
Harry, who had been marking Xs as Sherlock was talking, paused to stare at the grid again, eyes moving over the clues.

 

“Oh! The first clue tells us Grace was second and Lena was fourth, which means Tia and Melony had to be either first or third; if Tia wasn’t first, she has to be third, right? Which means Melony has to be first?”

 

Sherlock favored the boy with a fond smile, earning a grin in response. “Indeed; make sure you’re making use of your tools – they’ll assist more than you think until you can keep it all in your head; organization of thought will take many more lessons, I don’t expect you to be able to do it next week,” Sherlock explained, seeing the alarmed look coming onto the boy’s face.

 

Assuaged, Harry returned to his grid, pencil tapping rapidly on the side of the page as he puzzled it out. “Clue number five only tells us Tia didn’t just open a business,” he said, adding the appropriate X, “but we still don’t know what the – the ‘ _occasion,_ ’” he pronounced delicately, “for the flowers was for any of the ladies.”

 

The end of his sentence had the tiniest air of complaint about it, prompting Sherlock to tell him dryly, “You’re allowed to go back through the clues, you know.” He couldn’t help but be amused at the subtle pout gracing his normally amiable charge.

 

“The first one doesn’t help at all, we figured out the order earlier,” Harry thought aloud, drawing a line through the text. “Number two…so either Tia or Lena had to have opened the new business, since they’re third and fourth.”  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said quietly, not wanting to interrupt the train of thought.

 

“And…number five just told us that wasn’t Tia, so it had to be Lena!” The tone was triumphant as he filled in the dot.

 

Harry frowned as he looked over his grid. “Tia’s only got two squares left, so she had to be either the birthday or the new baby; hang on, I remember it saying something about the birthday earlier…number three,” he said after a moment’s search. “‘ _The birthday bouquet, which wasn’t for Grace, wasn’t the third delivery_.’ Oh, that’s not very helpful then…”

                                                                                         

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, eyebrow up. “Who was the third delivery?”

 

 _You’re spoiling him_ , John thought with a laugh.

 

 _Shut up, it’s his first try,_ Sherlock responded, defensive.

 

Harry crosschecked his grid, before smacking his forehead with his palm. “ _So dumb_. Tia was third, so she must’ve been the baby. Tia’s got the baby, Lena’s opening the new business,” he recited to himself, “which leaves the promotion and the birthday, and Grace and Melony.”

 

Another few minutes pouring over the clues yielded a pleased, “Clue three – Grace wasn’t the birthday, so that had to have been Melony, since she’s the only one left, which means…” he trailed off, adding Xs and dots as appropriate, “…Grace was the promotion!”

 

“Excellent use of the process of elimination,” Sherlock commended, pausing to explain that particularly useful method when he caught the slightly perplexed expression.

 

A few examples and one helpful analogy later, the boy was on the same page and already eagerly turning to the next puzzle, so Sherlock made himself available as a resource, but otherwise left his charge to it as the detective picked up his violin.

 

* * *

 

Harry had needed some assistance with the second and third puzzles, but he’d proclaimed his determination to solve the fourth by himself; he’d sprawled on the floor in front of the bookcase to “give himself space to think” (after asking permission, of course). Sherlock had naturally approved – he did his best thinking supine as well.

 

The detective had taken a post at the window, sinking into deeper contemplations now that the boy was comfortable enough on his own. His hands composed absently, eyes staring blankly out over Baker Street as he turned over his conversation last night with John.

 

Coaxing the good doctor through his temper tantrum had been a job and a half; Sherlock found himself in the unpleasant situation of being grateful to Mycroft for his timely interference – it would have been a bad show to subject Harry to, had John arrived in full storm. _Although exposure to Harry certainly reminded him of the facts…it might have headed the whole thing off._

_No,_ he decided after a moment’s thought, _delayed reaction at best – he wouldn’t have ever felt truly settled until he said his piece, and that would’ve gotten ugly down the line._

 

Sherlock had suspected anger would be involved, in light of his own misjudged reunion with the man. It seemed to be how John preferred to react when faced with the unknown – _fair enough,_ he acknowledged, only slightly begrudging, _I suppose we all have our flaws._

This time ‘round, Sherlock had decided to treat him with silk gloves: at first the plan had been to go the calm and steady route, demonstrate the capability for normalcy that John worried he lacked. But then John was so uncomfortable, so clearly at a loss, that Sherlock had taken pity on him and eased back into the abrasive nature John was used to; it was almost amusing to watch the doctor relax back into his chair subconsciously and settle in for a good banter, Sherlock thought fondly.

 

 _I got a bit angry at the end there – John should know me better by now._ It had hurt a little, the lack of faith. _I suppose he was looking at the facts though, can’t fault him for that,_ commented his clinical, discerning side _._

 

 _But_ , whispered the other part of him, _John’s supposed to be the hopeful one, the one always believing in people. The cynic’s my role._

_He’ll come ‘round,_ asserted his self-confidence. _Once he sees how good we are together, how much the boy needs us –_

 

The sound of a heavy thump and a surprised gasp pulled Sherlock out of his thoughts, and he turned from the window to check on his charge.

 

A quick, surveying glance showed the boy standing in the far corner, Sherlock’s bulky leather dictionary sagging in his arms – in fact, he appeared close to dropping it, an almost sick look on his face.

 

“All right?” Sherlock asked, searching.

 

“What?” The boy looked up suddenly, almost fearful. “Oh – yes, it, it just startled me, is all,” he explained. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so heavy.”

 

“How’d you get it down?” Sherlock questioned, curious – the book was kept on the fourth shelf up, well above Harry’s reach.

 

“I – I jumped for it, pulled it down by the spine,” he said timidly, as if afraid he was going to get in trouble. “I don’t know what ‘penultimate’ means, but it’s in one of my clues, and when I asked, you didn’t seem to hear me, so I was just going to look it up myself, but…” came the rushed explanation. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said slowly, unsure why the boy was so cautious all of a sudden. _Does he really think this will get him in trouble, after the rest of the time we’ve spent together? If anything, I’d think he would know I would applaud his resourcefulness._ _Something left over from his aunt and uncle?_

 

“Why don’t we keep it on the lower shelf from now on?” he offered, trying to soothe the boy’s concerns.

 

Harry gave a tentative, jerky nod, so Sherlock approached the shelves slowly and began hunting for something to move to the higher shelf and free up some space for the massive reference text.

 

His hands caught on _18th century Fabrics and Fashions_ – _probably won’t be needing this any time soon_ – and he took the opportunity to examine his charge out of the corner of his eye. Still looked to be a hint nervous, but for the most part he’d calmed down to the normal, collected countenance he showed the world.

 

Sherlock pulled the textile resource out from the second shelf and replaced it in the dictionary’s previous residence. _It’s quite a distance to jump, and the dictionary is a tall, heavy book – he must have higher physical capabilities than I had originally assessed, to have pulled that down on his first try._ Well, that would only be a boon for the boy moving forward, so Sherlock added it to the repertoire of notes he was making on his charge.

 

_I suppose he could’ve been practicing a few times while I was thinking, too; if I was in deep enough, I wouldn’t have heard him._

 

Sherlock turned to look at the boy, who had been watching him with quiet, assessing eyes, dictionary still clutched to his small chest. “There, space’s free now – whenever you’re done with it just put it back on the lower shelf.”

 

The boy nodded and watched as Sherlock ambled back over to the window, delicate fingers snatching up his violin as he went. It took Harry a few more silent seconds before he moved to sit on the floor and open up the dictionary, but shortly thereafter the soothing sounds of pages being flipped intermixed with Camille Saint-Saens’s “The Swan,” filling the flat of 221B.

 

* * *

_If anyone's interested in the logic puzzle Sherlock & Harry work on, it is a real puzzle borrowed from Dell Logic Lover's Logic Problems Magazine [I'm obsessed with these things, I pick one up whenever I'm at the airport]. I swapped the names around, but all credit goes to their writers._ 

 _The Clues, should someone want to solve this for themselves (a reminder, one woman celebrated a new baby, not listed in the clues):_

  1. _The second delivery was to Grace, and the fourth one was to Lena._
  2. _Either the third or fourth delivery was to the woman who is celebrating the grand opening of her business._
  3. _The birthday bouquet, which wasn’t for Grace, wasn’t David’s third delivery._
  4. _Tia (who isn’t celebrating a promotion) wasn’t the first to receive her bouquet._
  5.      _Tia didn’t just open a new business._  



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -insert grimace here- This chapter has been up since about July on ffn, crossposting now. Work on Chapter 13 has commenced, but please do not hold your breath for anything soon; real life tends to suck out the energy, and lots of things need to be set in motion next chapter, so I don't want to half ass it. A thousand apologies all around, and much love to those still with me, you are dearly appreciated, and quite often the reason I get back to writing. <3
> 
> Best wishes, 
> 
> Kris

**Author's Note:**

> Finally cross posted from ffn.net, where I am Inevitably Insane. I'm in love with the tag function here, as I'm sure you can see, so it had to happen.


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